


Smaug and the Storyteller

by circa1220bce



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Relationship, M/M, Russian Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circa1220bce/pseuds/circa1220bce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was what Bilbo noticed: for all that the dragon was a monstrous thing beyond Bilbo's imagination – it reminded Bilbo of the little lizards that would sometimes sunbathe on the rocks in his garden back home in the same sense that this mountain palace reminded him of those rocks – the dragon seemed prey to the same ordinary failing as any creature that thought rather too much of itself.</p><p>And that was, of course, its vanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Смауг и сказочник](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2602565) by [Dreaming_Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_Cat/pseuds/Dreaming_Cat)



> A thousand thanks to the wonderful Shira for betaing! Any and all remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Based on this prompt: _Bilbo/Smaug – Flattery will get you everywhere… Smaug keeps Bilbo because he likes to hear him talk about how wonderful he is. But poor Bilbo keeps trying to run off, so Smaug traps him in a cage. Bilbo is forced to flatter Smaug and tell him stories. Smaug begins to see more of Bilbo than just another possession, especially when Bilbo tells so many stories of the Shire._
> 
> **Warning:** While this veers off-canon right away, at one point it does veer briefly back. Some (but not all) of the very sad things that happen in the last third of the book happen here.

Underestimating a dragon's capacity for greed was far from Bilbo Baggins's first mistake since leaving the Shire all those months ago – his first mistake was, in fact, leaving the Shire. But trapped and staring into the much too close, unthinkably tall column of the dragon's pupil, he feared this mistake would end up being his greatest. He was not quite ready to say it would be his last, but he was also not quite confident enough to say otherwise.

Here Bilbo had thought himself very clever indeed – he could no more fight the great dragon with sword and shield than he could have fought and won with brute strength against the trolls or the giant spiders or the goblins or that poor wretch beneath the goblin tunnels or any of the other horrid foes that have continually barred the path of Thorin's company. But what Bilbo knew how to wield, and what had gotten him this far, was his wit, and that was what he wielded.

While Bilbo scrambled forty graceless steps backwards for every one of the dragon's monstrous movements forward, dizzy and lightheaded from breathing the musty air trapped inside the mountain and from the thundering of his heart and from trying desperately to think of how to escape to the hidden passage back to his friends, Bilbo paid attention.

This was what he noticed: for all that the dragon was a monstrous thing beyond Bilbo's imagination – it reminded Bilbo of the little lizards that would sometimes sunbathe on the rocks in his garden back home in the same sense that this mountain palace reminded him of those rocks – the dragon seemed prey to the same ordinary failing as any creature that thought rather too much of itself.

And that was, of course, its vanity.

When Bilbo babbled praises and flattery, the dragon slowed just a bit – the white fire in its belly dimmed, just enough, and the slashes of its claws and bites of its jaw turned half-hearted, and its taunting turned nearly playful. But when Bilbo fell silent, the dragon's demeanour darkened and its interest in keeping Bilbo alive to toy with clearly vanished.

So Bilbo said _O Smaug the Terrible_ and _O Smaug the Mighty_ and _O Smaug the Ferocious_. He said _More powerful than a dozen dozen hurricanes_ and _More fearsome than a hundred hundred armies_ and _More deadly than a thousand thousand plagues_. Bilbo said _legendary_ and _majestic_ and _kingly_ , and he said _clever_ and _astute_ and _wise_ , and he said _stunning_ and _striking_ and _colossal_.

Before Bilbo quite knew what was happening, he found himself seated atop the centremost mound of treasure, surrounded on all sides by the dragon. Its enormous form was curled around him: its head was rested in front of Bilbo with its gaze fixed upon him, its tail was thumping steadily beside its head, each thump causing a small avalanche of gold, and the rest of its body was curved behind Bilbo. Bilbo was trapped.

This was not good at all. The dwarves must've been able to hear the dragon's rumbling and snarling. They must have realised that Bilbo foolishly woke the dragon. They'd be wondering where Bilbo disappeared to, if he did not escape soon. They'd soon enough be wondering if Bilbo had fled, abandoning them, or if he was killed. But how could Bilbo possibly escape with the dragon's full attention so unwavering?

There was nothing for it, not yet. Flattery was keeping Bilbo alive, so Bilbo kept flattering, even as his voice turned hoarse.

Bilbo said _O Smaug the Stupendous_ and _O Smaug the Magnificent_ and _O Smaug the Great_. And he compared the dragon's demeanour to kings and emperors and thains, the dragon's exploits to tsunamis and thunderstorms and floods, and the dragon's body to swords and spears and plated armour, and at the end of each comparison Bilbo concluded that there was no comparison at all, not next to Smaug.

Eventually the dragon blinked heavily, and the thumps of its tail became lazier. If the dragon fell asleep, Bilbo could easily sneak through the gap between the dragon's head and tail to escape! At Bilbo's first movement, however, the dragon's eye widened, completely, and its tail thumped with pointed force. But the dragon said nothing, and Bilbo was not yet incinerated, so he pretended he was merely arranging the gold around him for a more comfortable seat.

And Bilbo said _O Smaug the Awe-some_ and _O Smaug the Dreadful_ and _O Smaug the Formidable_. He said _epitome of dragon-hood_ and _possesses a treasure-hoard envied by all of Middle-earth_ and _true King under the Mountain_. He said other kings may need silly accoutrements like thrones and courts, but O Smaug needed no throne but his enemy's treasure, now his and stained with his enemy's blood, and no court beyond the ruins of his fallen enemy’s home, populated with the ghosts of his enemy's dead, whom he killed.

Foolish hobbit, he thought to himself. Assuming that a dragon's bottomless greed encompasses only gold and would not extend to whatever the dragon found pleasing. Bilbo was already running out of compliments, while the dragon appeared very far from running out of desire to hear them.

When next Bilbo faltered, mind groping for what next to praise, the dragon began to rise. Bilbo scrambled to his feet also, as the dragon's movements caused the mountains of gold to cascade alarmingly and Bilbo was likely to be crushed if he stayed still. This was his chance – he had made sure to remember the exact way to the hidden passage, and in this confusion he could slip on the ring and dash away.

But he reacted a moment too late, clumsy as he was from sitting still for too long, and the dragon planted one its monstrous hands over Bilbo's form, its claws encircling him. The gold settled and Bilbo's heart pounded, unable to look away from the razor-sharp edges of the claws on all sides of him.

He could still use the ring and turn invisible and slip through the gap in the dragon's claws, but he was right in the middle of the treasure-hoard! Not even a hobbit could walk silently across a pathway of gold trinkets. The dragon would be able to follow the shifting of the coins beneath Bilbo's feet and belch flames in Bilbo's general direction at its leisure.

If the dragon even waited long enough for Bilbo to make a go of escaping. What had caused the reappearance of the dragon’s temper?

“O Smaug,” Bilbo said, voice thin despite his best effort to sound confident, and he tried as hard as he could to scavenge the blank, terrified canvas of his mind for more compliments – for, meagre as it was, compliments were the only weapon at his disposal, and Bilbo may be small, and he may be scared, and he may be just a silly hobbit out in a world too large for him, but he _had not_ come this far on his journey to merely lay down his arms when things appeared dire.

“No need to fret so, Barrel-Rider,” the dragon interrupted, the guttural depth of its voice rattling Bilbo's bones. “I think only that you look often towards that little hole in the wall, the one through which a draft has been coming. As if someone has opened a little door to the outside of the mountain. I would hate for you to be distracted by it. No, I shall remove from you temptation, so that you can focus fully on pleasing me with your lovely words.”

Bilbo couldn't breathe. The dragon scooped him up and deposited him on one of the walkways that criss-crossed the hall, far from the hidden passage, the move so dizzyingly abrupt Bilbo did not even have time to feel horror at being lifted so effortlessly and so high up. Bilbo looked side to side and had just prepared himself to abandon all caution and _run_ when the dragon said, “Let us not be _hasty_ , thief,” and brought one monstrous hand near.

He could do nothing but stare at the approaching point of one devastating claw. It touched him, just barely, on his midriff, and Bilbo yelped. It took a hundred thudding heartbeats to realise the claw was not skewing him but was merely pushing him to lay flat against the stone walkway. The claw pressed just close enough to be felt, yet it felt like the whole of the dragon’s weight hovered above him.

“Stay there, awhile,” the dragon invited, dark amusement in its tone. Bilbo heard the dragon rifling through its treasures with its free claw, and then it lifted a wicked-looking iron spear. It drove the spear into the stone next to Bilbo with as much effort as Bilbo might exert pushing a toothpick into a pie to check its consistency, though it took Bilbo _another_ hundred thudding heartbeats to realise the spear was not being impaled in _him_. Bilbo was still gaping at the spear when the dragon lifted another and drove it into the stone beside the first, with barely the width of one of Bilbo's hands between them, and then a third and a fourth and a fifth, all in a row.

Pinned, Bilbo had little choice but to watch as the dragon continued, steadily forming a square around him. The dragon removed its claw in order to place the final spears completing the box surrounding him. Then the dragon ducked out of Bilbo's sight for a brief moment, only to return with an enormous silver seal, easily three times Bilbo’s height in diameter, which the dragon balanced atop the spears.

It wobbled, and Bilbo slapped his hands to his mouth to stifle his hysterical giggles as he watched. Of all the ways to die – if those spears gave he was going to be literally crushed to death by the Durin family crest! But it settled, and Bilbo sat up and looked at his neat little cage, and at the smug satisfaction that was written clearly on the dragon’s face, and his mind was blank save for a stream of quite scandalous profanity.

What the dragon did next was even more horrifying. It headed directly to the hidden passage and slashed at the surrounding rock, collapsing the rock and blocking off the entrance entirely.

“Now, thief,” the dragon said when it returned, its claws settling to either side of Bilbo’s cage and its head tilted so that one eye could fix upon him, “Where were we?”

But Bilbo was not done despairing at this turn of events. That hidden passage had been Bilbo's only hope of escape! The dwarves had been quite clear that the front gate was the only other entrance (as the dragon had long ago smashed and blocked off all the other gates) and that it was a wide open space with no place to hide. Any thing attempting entry or leave was at the dragon's mercy. And here Bilbo was, trapped even more securely than before, with no way to warn the dwarves and no way to free himself.

“ _Well_?” the dragon snarled, when Bilbo did not speak. The dragon's tail thumped somewhere out of Bilbo's sight, and the temperature rose alarmingly as white flame crept up the dragon's neck, visible even through its thick scales and the treasure armouring its underbelly. The dragon hissed, “Do you think I do not know what you are? Lake-town spy! Conspiring with Dwarf and Man against me! Do you think I cannot smell them on you? You would bring them to _my_ door, you would attempt to steal from _me_ , and when I show mercy – when I _deign_ to find you interesting enough to not immediately kill, you balk at me? How _dare_ you! You will do as I command, and when I tire of you I will _eat_ you, though my stomach will hardly even note a little wisp of nothing like you.”

How had Bilbo managed to fall into this mess? He was supposed to be a _burglar_ , and nowhere in that long, detailed contract he'd signed was it ever specified that Bilbo would have to deal with the dragon. While Bilbo was happy to help Thorin and his company as he could, this was asking far too much. But the dwarves were still outside the hidden passage door, waiting for his return, so Bilbo would once again have to find a way to be more clever – even more clever than an ancient dragon.

If he could but convince the dragon to allow him to step outside, Bilbo could rejoin the company, and tell the dwarves it was on them to dispose of the dragon. “I _did_ conspire with Dwarf and Man,” Bilbo admitted, because he could not dispute the dragon's nose – though if the dragon asked, Bilbo would refuse to actually name any of his conspirators. “But I see now our failing. We had only heard of Smaug the Terrible, and the old stories do you no justice. If they could but understand your true magnificence, never would they attempt to displace you from your rightful throne, O Smaug. Let me be your humble servant – let me travel the lands and sing your praises to Dwarf and Man and Elf and whoever else that all would know it for a fool's errand to act against you!”

“But did you not just say that stories cannot do me justice, Web-Cutter?” Smaug said.

“Those stories, yes,” Bilbo agreed. “But they are old accounts of when you first took your rightful place in this mountain, third- and fourth- and fifth-hand, watered down and told by those who were wise enough to fear you but not wise enough to revere you.”

The pupil before Bilbo expanded and contracted as the dragon considered him. It said, “You have so far not admitted to what you are, Stinging Fly. Do not think I have not noticed. You do not smell like a dwarf, nor like a man or an elf or any other creature of which I am aware. Dwarf and man and elf – it is my understanding that all of them are renowned storytellers. You would tell me that, whatever you are, your skill surpasses theirs?”

“My people,” and thankfully Bilbo managed to bite his tongue on the word 'hobbit', “are the best storytellers there are, and of my people I am the very best.”

The dragon's head tilted, again considering him, and then it said, “Very well. Prove it.”

Expecting this, Bilbo cleared his throat and told the dragon a story about tricking a trio of trolls, very carefully omitting names and other identifying information and adding imagery and different voices and embellishing just the right amount to make the tale truly riveting. The dragon listened with frankly worrying intensity, its massive head _very_ close, but knowing that this could be his only chance, Bilbo spoke confidently and maintained just the right speed – not so fast a listener could not keep up, and not so slow a listener might be bored and try to suppose ahead and ruin an ending.

When he finished, the dragon continued to stare at him, unblinking.

Forcing any hesitance from his voice, Bilbo said, “As you could hear, I was not lying – I am a very skilled storyteller. Have I proved my worth, O Smaug the Fearsome?”

The dragon ignored his question and said, “Tell another.”

Well, perhaps it was a lot to hope that one story would be enough. But Bilbo really _was_ an excellent storyteller and knew hundreds of stories. Hobbits collect stories and gossip and poems like knickknacks, and Bilbo’s collection had been impressive even before embarking on this journey.

He figured he ought demonstrate the range of his abilities, and this time he told of the humorous fireworks fiasco at his cousin Otho's birthday celebration three years ago. He made sure to omit any references to hobbits or the Shire and to once again not name any names, and he embellished again a few other things to make up for that lack of detail, and he was more than halfway through the account before the thought occurred that while Bilbo's story might be impressive to _hobbits_ , a great dragon would have not the slightest interest in hearing about _birthday parties_ , even very funny ones.

But the dragon kept watching him, that great eye focused unerringly upon him, and seemed to listen very closely to Bilbo's every word, and most importantly at no point attempted to incinerate him. So, Bilbo finished the story, not just glossing over to the best bits but painting a rich portrait to include even the cakes and pastries and plates of succulent meats, and the ribbons and decorations and games, and the sound of laughter and the pleasant chill in the air and the smell of burnt grass (that was, of course, from the fireworks).

And when the story was over, and the dragon's massive head was right up against the bars of Bilbo's little cage, the dragon said, “Another.”

So Bilbo tried a few poems, the long-winded and flowery sort, and the dragon allowed those, too. Next a few jokes — the dragon did not twitch, not even at Gamgee’s crudest, funniest quips — and then a fable, the sort Bilbo's mother would read to him before bed. And the dragon just _watched_ him, with steady breaths, its eye so close and unblinking and still Bilbo could see his own reflection in its black depth -- he could see a hobbit, pale and disheveled, small and trying to be brave but so very, unthinkably frightened.

“O Smaug,” Bilbo tried, when his throat was raw and speaking hurt. “My voice must be starting to grate on your kingly ears. If I had but a sip of water, I might —”

“No,” the dragon said. And then: “Another story.”

So Bilbo cleared his throat, which was achingly dry, and recounted the scandal of Rollo Boffin eloping with Druda Burrows.

When his stomach clenched and cramped, unbearably empty – Bilbo could not even _fathom_ how many meals he had skipped already – he said, “O Smaug, greatest treasure in all of Middle-earth, I am such a weak race compared to a strong dragon like yourself. Without food —”

“No,” the dragon said. And then: “Another poem.”

So Bilbo ignored as best he could the terrible rumbling in his stomach and recited the epic love poem he’d written for one Jessamine Boffin. He neglected to mention that he'd in fact written it for Herugar Bolger to give to her, as he hadn't Bilbo's way with words and Bilbo was not interested in courting anyone for himself, or that Jessamine and Herugar were now happily married.

When Bilbo’s bladder began protesting quite strenuously, and he began wondering exactly how the dragon might take to a hobbit pissing onto its gold, Bilbo said, “O Smaug —”

But the dragon said, “No,” and the dragon said, “Another.”

But Bilbo — he had had _quite enough_. The dragon had no intention of letting Bilbo out of this cage, let alone out of this mountain, Bilbo could see that now. “This is mercy, is it?” he snapped, so loud it echoed and the dragon’s head jerked back. “A slow death of — of thirst and starvation? No. No, I should rather be incinerated quickly, thank you very much.” He crossed his arms, and his chin might be lifted but his voice broke when he added, “So there.”

The dragon's lip curled and fire flared its belly, burningly bright, and this is what happens when one gets what they wish for. Bilbo saw and heard the flapping of the dragon's massive wings and staggered backwards at the force of the displaced air, throwing his arms up to protect his face. But the threat of fire dimmed and the dragon flew _away_.

He looked around, blinking and befuddled, and it took him an unforgivably long time to latch onto the most pertinent fact – _no dragon_. First order of business – Bilbo pulled down his trousers and relieved himself off the ledge of the walkway, sighing in relief. The dragon hopefully wouldn't even notice, he reasoned, given the stench it already made in the mountain. Bilbo refastened his trousers but had time for nothing else before the dragon returned, carrying a wooden crate in one hand and a barrel in the other. They both looked very small in the dragon's grip, but when it set them both down next to Bilbo's cage, the crate towered above Bilbo's height and the barrel was nearly as thick around as his cage.

A simple tap of the dragon's claw tipped over the crate, and Bilbo scrambled backwards to huddle against the cage wall furthest from the crate as he was inundated with a wave of boxes and jars. The boxes broke open to reveal cram, the bread the dwarves pack for long journeys that was uninteresting but hardly ever went bad, and the jars that broke against the spears revealed the rotted remains of cured meats. The dragon then tipped over the barrel, which sloshed Bilbo and the cram and the rancid meats with water.

“Replenish,” the dragon snarled. “And then you might spend a good long time extolling my _patience_.”

Bilbo was not so proud that he did not scrounge through the mess at his feet. Using a broken piece of jar he scooped up as much of the water as he could and gulped down several mouthfuls. Then he picked through the mess of foodstuffs, saving the cram and tossing away the rancid meat. And even though he was quite sick of it after resorting so frequently to it during his months with the dwarves, he immediately scarfed several pieces of cram down, too.

His immediate needs met, but no plan for escape anywhere in sight, Bilbo did the only thing he could. He faced the dragon, and he said _O Smaug the Merciful_ and _O Smaug the Patient_ and _O Smaug the Generous_. He said _wiser than wizards_ and _more hospitable than elves_ and _more resourceful than dwarves_. Bilbo said _flawless_ and _magnanimous_ and _benevolent_ , and when the dragon said, “Another story,” Bilbo told him a harrowing tale about spiders in a forest.

Several days passed in this fashion. The dragon would sleep occasionally, and each time before sleeping it would perform the same ritual: the dragon would circle the vast chamber, inspecting and tidying the edges of the piles of its treasure-hoard and arranging here and there. It would smooth its great hands over the gold and sometimes lean down to scent at it and would make various rumbling noises of greedy satisfaction. Then the dragon would return to the centre and lower its body down and settle into a loose curl. And though the dragon would sleep, it would leave one of its eyes wide open, as dragons do when suspicious of intruders in their lairs. Then, upon waking, it would demand stories and poems and riddles, and Bilbo talked and talked – more than he ever has talked before.

Although the cram was (unfortunately) plentiful, the water was less so, as most of it ended up sloshed over the edges of the walkway down onto the gold. So when there was none, after much flattering on Bilbo's part, the dragon went off and returned with a second barrel of water, and even the couple of bowls that Bilbo had also pleaded for. One bowl he used to catch as much of the water as he could. The second he kept for his personal needs, and the dragon didn't seem to even notice Bilbo when he relieved himself, which was the only thing that kept this experience from being completely mortifying in addition to just abjectly terrifying.

And during the times when entertainment were not demanded, Bilbo thought about Thorin and the dwarves, and wondered what would become of them.

But Bilbo was no fool, and just because he could not find a way to escape did not mean he wasn't thinking of ways to. And he noticed a strange thing over these days – whenever Bilbo attempted a story featuring adventures on his journey, or secondhand stories of adventures he remembered hearing from his Took kin, the dragon steered Bilbo back towards relatively tame stories of the Shire.

Finally Bilbo realised why – the dragon was trying to trick Bilbo into revealing more about himself! Not about the dwarves that were in Thorin's company, or the men in Lake-town, or the elves, but about Bilbo himself and where he came from.

Cold with thoughts of the dragon locating and terrorizing the Shire as it already had the mountain and Dale and Lake-town, Bilbo slowed his talking speed, thinking carefully about what he said before speaking and redoubling his efforts to plan an escape. He of course hadn't had a decent moment of sleep since entering this mountain, only a few winks here and there while the dragon slumbered, and he was so very tired. His eyes were constantly heavy, and his mind and his heart, too, and sooner or later he would slip. The dragon already had so much power over him – give the dragon his true name, or the name of his home, and that power would be so much greater.

“ _Dwarves_ ,” the dragon huffed when Bilbo next attempted a story based on his journey, the word sending a puff of air that singed Bilbo’s face. “Always stories of dwarves.” The thump of the dragon's tail boomed and echoed and the dragon turned its head to peer at Bilbo with its other eye. “Your still-unnamed traveling companions, perhaps? Did you think it wise, Ringwinner, to ally yourself with those creatures? They promised you a share of treasures, I'm sure. But they won't follow through. They are nearly as greedy as I, and that is no easy feat. No,” and the dragon huffed again, “No, dwarves cannot be trusted. Speak more, now, but speak no more of dwarves.”

The stories of dragons always talk of their persuasiveness and of the unwary falling prey to dragon-speak, and Bilbo struggled not to allow the dragon's words to take any hold on him. Bilbo _did_ trust Thorin and his company, he did. And the dwarves had all proved to be steadfast companions, yes. And by this point they no doubt thought Bilbo dead and so certainly were not mounting a rescue, which was understandable given the circumstances, but they were likely to have bowed their heads in mourning and said a little prayer for their little burglar.

But – well, whenever in the past months of their journeying the topic of their treasure arose, when Thorin said _Arkenstone_ , or the dwarves said _gold_ and _silver_ and _gems_ , well, they got a particular gleam in their eyes. A gleam that made them almost unrecognisable from the dwarves Bilbo now considered friends. A gleam Bilbo did not like at all.

He put that from his mind and focused instead on something more important: he now had two weapons – compliments to draw the dragon closer, and dwarves to push the dragon away. The dragon, in the days since caging poor little Bilbo, left only to bring Bilbo more meagre supplies and for no other time. If he could send the dragon to rage or sulk elsewhere, Bilbo might be free to test the iron spears around him for a weakness or to see if any of the gaps were wide enough to squeeze through, or even to visually plot out his escape should the dragon ever relent and release him from this hateful box.

So Bilbo said _O Smaug the Terrible_ and _O Smaug the Stupendous_ and _O Smaug the Awe-some_ (it was already getting difficult not to repeat himself). He spoke about humorous or dramatic birthday parties and marriage parties and just-because parties, and of various mishaps in gardening and sewing and baking. And, as often as he dared, Bilbo slipped in mentions of dwarves, apologizing profusely each time for forgetting, and trying not to grin when each mention caused an increasingly irritated sneer and huff and thump of a tail.

But as all of Bilbo's plans concerning O Smaug the Hobbit-Tormentor, this one too spiralled out of Bilbo's imagining. Bilbo must've made one mention of dwarves too many, and the dragon fell into a raving, paranoid rage, voice so deep and dark Bilbo _felt_ the words keenly but could barely decipher them. Bilbo heard _thieves_ and _filth_ and _usurpers_ , he heard _my mountain_ and _my treasure_ and _my storyteller_ , and _schemers_ and _conspirators_ and _liars_ , and _burn them_ and _crush them_ and _eat them_.

Bilbo heard _mine_ , and again but louder _mine_ , and again but so much louder the walls shook and so deadly the hairs on Bilbo's neck stood on end, _**mine**_.

The dragon threw back its head and let loose a mighty roar that they could probably hear in the Shire, and he belched scorching flames that licked up and up towards the mountain top, and then the dragon fell forward onto its forelegs and charged towards the front gate, scattering gold coins and gems in its furious wake.

Bilbo could only stare in horror, realizing too late his error – the dragon did nothing but in exaggeration. A disliked topic was not going to cause a sulk but a ferocious temper. And the dragon thought the dwarves were conspiring with the men in Lake-town! The dragon was going to attack the unprepared town and kill everyone, including the dwarves if that was indeed where they were, and it would be entirely Bilbo's fault. He yanked and pulled at the iron spears encasing him, heedless of the threat of the enormous crest above him, and cried out, “No!” and “Please don't!” and “Smaug, please, _no_!”

And, oh, how small and unimportant Bilbo was right now. It was no secret in the Shire that most of Middle-Earth was oversized — exaggerated up and out and around. In the past months, at each turn, at each breath-taking vista they encountered, each monstrous foe, Bilbo thought the world could get no more vast and terrifyingly large. But this — this was what it meant to be just an unimportant hobbit from the Shire. This was what it meant to be small, in every sense of the word.

Sliding to the stone floor, Bilbo wrapped his arms around his drawn-up legs and stared towards where the dragon had disappeared. Bilbo could not see the front gate from where he sat; he could only listen and wait. He heard the dragon's charging, and the continuing after-echoes of the dragon's ranting. What he did not hear was the flapping of great wings signalling the dragon's flying away. Instead, there was a pause and then a series of crashes and roars and the mountain shook terribly, the piles of gold shuddering. There was the sound of stone breaking and crumbling and settling.

The dragon returned, huffing and its underbelly shining with flame, and the glint in its eyes and the tilt of its head was very pleased.

“You destroyed the front gate,” Bilbo said, mouth dry.

“Indeed,” the dragon said, as the last hints of its terrible rage dissipated. “I should like to see anyone take what is mine, now.”

“But – but --” Bilbo's mouth opened and closed. His mind circled again and again around the word: trapped. “You haven't just kept them out! You've kept yourself in!”

“A mountain side is no impediment to _me_ ,” Smaug said. “If every day I carved myself an exit and every day I re-blocked it upon my return, the hundredth thousandth day would be no more effort than the first. In those hundred thousand days, any of those on the outside would have carved themselves no more than a tiny dent in the mountainside.” The dragon laid its head down beside Bilbo's cage and fixed its gaze once more upon him. “Now. Another story, Storyteller.”

“It's a strange thing,” Bilbo blurted.

“What is that?”

“You – well, you quite like stories, don't you? That's not something – I can't say I expected it, to be frank.”

“I believe dragons tend to,” Smaug said.

“Do they?” Bilbo searched his mind for all the dragon-tales he's ever heard, both before and since joining Thorin's company – it doesn't take long, as the tales have been rather at the forefront of his mind – and can't think of any to do with a fondness for stories. Without thinking about it, Bilbo said, “Well, if you were a bit nicer, you might have more storytellers volunteering to entertain you.”

But Smaug did not seem upset at the barb – in fact, he seemed nearly amused. Instead, he dragged one of his hands through the gold and lifted it up to Bilbo's line of sight, opening his fist to allow the treasure to fall through his claws in a shining, sparkling waterfall of gold and silver. Bilbo did not have to be a dwarf or a dragon to find the sight breathtakingly beautiful. “What do you believe gold is, if not a story?”

“The gold _speaks_ to you?” Bilbo asked, amazed.

“Not literally, no,” Smaug said. “But a dragon knows every last piece of treasure in his hoard. I could smell the absence of even a single goblet. I can recognize every coin, every gem, every crown, every plate. And in their shape and consistency, in their wear and their weight, they tell me many stories indeed – how they were mined, how they were crafted, how they were forged. They tell me years and owners and histories. They tell me whether they were stolen or loved or coveted. And each one, every single last piece of my treasure down to the smallest gem, has one story in common.”

The fall of treasure ended, Bilbo turned to look curiously at Smaug. “What story is that?”

“Their final story, which is always my favourite story – and that is: they become Smaug's. One day even you, Storyteller, will run out of all stories but that one. You will say: I have one more story left. You will say: I came into this mountain, and I did not leave it again, because I became Smaug's. And _that_ , even though I am partial to your riddles and your poems and your birthday parties, that will be my favourite story of all.”

Forcing a light-hearted tone, Bilbo said, “I think, Smaug, you underestimate just how many stories I know.”

Smaug bared a tooth in what it took Bilbo a startled moment to realize was supposed to be a _grin_. “I think that _you_ , Storyteller, underestimate just how long you'll be here telling them to me.”


	2. Chapter 2

The thing of it was, Bilbo was becoming rather cross.

He had been eating nothing but cram for days, you see, and he had not gotten a decent night's sleep in all that time. He was beginning to think he was was going to be stuck here in this musty old mountain forever, and more and more each day he missed and worried about Thorin and the company and Gandalf and his cosy home in the Shire.

Moreover, he was beginning to think he was going to be stuck not only in this mountain but in this silly little cage, which was just insult to injury – where did Smaug think Bilbo was going to _go_ with all the exits smashed and him an enormous dragon literally breathing down his neck?

Besides which, this whole being terrified business was itself exhausting and really at this point just tiresome, particularly given that Smaug wasn't even _trying_ to terrorize Bilbo anymore. The greedy old worm just wanted story after story, and although Bilbo would not say that the dragon made a good audience – no laughing at the quips, or gasping at the scary bits, or encouraging Bilbo in any way – he _was_ an alarmingly attentive one. Bilbo was inclined to think that that was worse.

What this meant was that Bilbo still said _O Smaug the Vicious_ and _O Smaug the Tormentor_ and _O Smaug the Powerful_ , but now there was no mistaking the sarcastic edge to Bilbo's tone. And he still told stories and fables and poems, except he replaced all of the witless characters in them with lizards and bats and made continual, needless reference to their ugliness and general lack of hygiene.

And Bilbo still said _fire hotter than a thousand suns_ and _claws and teeth sharper than elven blades_ , but he also said _feet as hairless and smooth as river rocks_ , which, to hobbits, was a fairly grave insult (his mother, were she alive and there to hear him say it, would've given Bilbo a right scolding for that one, no matter that it was directed to an old worm like Smaug).

Oh, sure, Smaug huffed and puffed and narrowed his huge eyes at Bilbo and made his little threats about eating Bilbo, but he also began sleeping with both eyes closed, and there was no question to Bilbo which of those actions was the most telling. It wasn't that Smaug no longer thought of Bilbo as a threat, he was sure – after all, what threat to him had Bilbo ever actually posed? – but that he no longer thought of Bilbo as a thief or a liar or an intruder.

No, now Smaug clearly thought something worse.

Bilbo had been _collected_ by the dragon, slotted neatly into his treasure-hoard, and of everything that was making Bilbo most cross of all.

While Bilbo's odds of surviving this ordeal had never been higher, his odds of being allowed to leave had never been lower, and Bilbo could not let this go on; he began crafting a plan to at least get him out of this cage if not out of this mountain. He waited until a time when Smaug would be groggy from just coming out of sleep and he said, casual and innocent, “The old stories about dragons did get something very wrong, didn't they?”

Smaug stretched out his wings – edge to edge they spanned nearly the entire chamber – and tilted his head in a manner Bilbo had come to recognize as inquisitive.

“They get the enormity correct and all. And the heat and the teeth and the claws and the scales. And the _fondness_ for gold, sure. But, well...” Bilbo drew out the word, taking the pause to wonder at his own recklessness, “all of the stories say that dragons take exceptional care of their hoards. And I just don't see it.”

Smaug froze, any hint of sleepiness gone, and Bilbo must've found the one insult a dragon would not suffer. “You mean to say I do not?” he said. It wasn't even a snarl, he appeared so astounded.

“The stories say a dragon does not neglect even one gem, not so much as one piece of gold, no matter how small.”

“And what have I neglected?” _Now_ there was snarling, as the dragon paced all around the chamber, furiously inspecting his treasure-hoard, diving into and out of mounds and spraying gold trinkets in every direction as he searched for something smudged or bent or broken from his own negligence.

Bilbo found the dragon's predictability quite nearly endearing. But he said nothing, and simply held out his arms and waited.

When the dragon seemed to finally realize what Bilbo meant, Bilbo said, “I want blankets and pillows, and something to drink that hasn't first been spilled on the floor. I want something to eat that is not that old dwarf bread, if at all possible. I want to leave this cage and stretch my legs a bit. I want a good deal of other things, too, but I'm not as greedy as you so I won't ask for them.” The dragon stared at him. “I am _yours_ , Smaug,” Bilbo continued, because he was not above playing a bit dirty and was beginning to get the hang of how the dragon’s mind worked. “But I am not a piece of gold. You'll afford me these things – all of them – or else I say you are not a proper dragon at all.”

Smaug stared, and he stared and stared until Bilbo began to fidget and call himself all kinds of fool, and he was almost relieved when the dragon roared, “You think you can speak to me in that way?”

“I know I can, just like I know you'll do exactly as I've asked,” Bilbo said, even though it was less a matter of knowing and much more a matter of crossing his fingers very tightly and hoping.

“ _Asked_ ,” Smaug sneered. “You did not _ask_ , no, you did not plead or beg. You demanded! _Demanded_ of _me_. A little – little – little nothing such as yourself, not even a man or a dwarf or an elf, demanding anything of me? I am not yours to command!”

“You are,” Bilbo said, “because I know that you know, and know very well, that doing anything but what I've asked only proves me right.”

“And if I say I am questioning whether you are worth keeping?”

His head was right against the spears of Bilbo's cage, and his pupil was just a narrow strip, but no fire flared in his belly so Bilbo took the leap and said, “I'd say this: what dragon would dare call himself a dragon if the thought ever crossed his mind that even a single piece of treasure wasn't worth the effort of keeping it?”

Smaug's nostrils flared as he puffed out several scorchingly hot breaths, his pupil expanding and contracting in turn. He said in an even tone, “Tell me what you are, and I will perhaps acquiesce to your demands.”

“No,” Bilbo said.

Another breath, and another. Smaug said, ”Tell me where you come from, then, if not what you are, and I will acquiesce.”

“No,” Bilbo said.

Smaug's tail thumped very loudly against the gold, though Smaug's voice was still even when he said, “Your name. Tell me your true name, and what you want is yours.”

But Bilbo said: “No.”

Bilbo sat cross-legged on the floor in his cage, with cheeks on fists and elbows on knees, while Smaug threw himself into columns and walls, causing the mountain to shudder, and roared and belched flames up and down the tunnels and whipped and slashed his tail and claws and beat his wings so furiously every coin in the chamber rattled. Smaug disappeared down a corridor, and Bilbo heard for some time the booming echoes of crashes and bellowing.

Poor Smaug, Bilbo thought to himself. With a temper like that, no wonder the old worm lived all alone.

When the seething dragon finally returned, he marched up to Bilbo and grabbed the seal above him and placed it aside – gently, Bilbo noted – and then he snatched up Bilbo, too, and placed him down before one of the tunnels leading out of the chamber – gently, but markedly less gently than the seal, Bilbo noted also. Bilbo remained crouched, though, trying to take deep, calming breaths and hear through the pounding of his heart – he was never going to be accustomed to being lifted and moved around like he was the wisp of nothing Smaug called him.

“Right,” Bilbo said, when he had the voice to. “Right. Yes, thank you. This didn't have to be this difficult, you realize.” He patted himself down and tried not to focus on the enormous presence directly behind him.

This was made difficult when the dragon said, “This way,” and leaned down, the huffs of breath from his nostrils scorchingly hot, and with the tip of his nose _nudged_ Bilbo forward. From everything Bilbo had seen of Smaug, the movement was astoundingly restrained, but even so the force nearly put Bilbo through a wall.

He flailed his arms wildly to regain his balance, and when the dragon leaned down as if to do it again, Bilbo all but ran down the tunnel lest the dragon think Bilbo lacked encouragement.

Smaug steered Bilbo through the vast network of halls and tunnels, giving Bilbo scant time to appreciate the beauty and intricacy of the architecture, and halted them at the entrance to what looked like a storage room. “Collect what you demanded of me, then, Storyteller,” Smaug said. “And do not dare test me in this way again.”

No longer listening to Smaug as there was now a more pressing matter before him, Bilbo waved a vague hand in the dragon's direction and then scurried into the room, eager to see if any food but cram had survived the years. There were the remains of salted and pickled and cured meats, most of which were but bone now, and enormous sealed barrels of water, and stacks upon stacks of crates of the tightly packaged bread. These must've been long-term supplies for if the mountain ever fell under siege, and Bilbo hunted through crates and jars and boxes, but the dwarfs must've been more concerned with quantity than variety – something Bilbo could barely comprehend, even with the evidence right there.

“There must be something!” Bilbo cried, overturning another box with contents identical to the last fifteen he'd rifled through. “I cannot eat cram for even one more day, I can't!”

Smaug couldn't fit his head through the doorway, let alone anything else of him – on his prior trips he must've stuck in his hand and taken whatever he reached first – and all Bilbo saw of him was one huge eye following Bilbo's movements. Smaug huffed, and Bilbo said, “You don't understand!” and the dragon said, “Explain it to me, then.”

So Bilbo did. He talked of garlic steaks and roasted chicken and grilled fish. The burst of flavour from the first bite of a just-picked strawberry, the wafting smell of fresh bread baking in the oven, and the delicious sight of a full spread at the table. He talked about moist yellow cakes and delicate chocolates and twenty types of pie from apple to pumpkin. He talked about his garden of herbs, the rosemary tree and the parsley and the mint, and his garden of vegetables, the bright red of the tomatoes and the crisp green of the lettuce heads and the shiny yellow of the peppers.

He explained about first and second breakfast, and elevenses and afternoon tea and dinner and supper, and that he was so depressingly skinny now from lack of proper meals that his waistcoats and trousers back home would probably fall off him, six sizes too big at least. He concluded that adventures were nice and all, but he could now say with some authority that they were not nicer than a cosy home and regular meals.

When Bilbo fell silent, Smaug said, “I eat sheep and horses and ponies, and dwarves and elves and men and thieves. I eat also orcs and goblins and eagles, but they are less preferable.”

Bilbo blinked at him. This was the first that Bilbo could recall the dragon responding in kind to any of Bilbo's stories; usually Smaug just consumed them, silently and intently, and demanded another and another. This wasn't much of a story, mind – Smaug offered no elaboration or interesting details beyond that simple list of facts. But given this particular subject matter, Bilbo wasn't about to complain.

Then the dragon added, “I do not eat Storytellers,” and even though Bilbo had suspected as much, he nearly fell over at the blunt confirmation.

But what Bilbo said was, “I could have told you _that_.”

Then Bilbo motioned for Smaug to back up so he could roll out a barrel of water, and unfortunately another crate of cram, and Smaug immediately scooped up both. Then the dragon led them to another storage room, which contained cots and rolls of blankets and thick, feather-stuffed pillows, all of which was ratty and mouldy and dusty, but beggars can't be choosers as Bilbo's father used to say. Bilbo chose what looked like the best of the lot, and Smaug scooped those up, too, and then he herded Bilbo back to the treasure room.

Smaug set everything down on the walkway beside Bilbo's former cage, and feeling generous, Bilbo didn't even comment when the dragon then went around clearing the debris from his hoard and accounting for everything that had got disrupted during his tantrum.

When Smaug returned to Bilbo and laid his head beside Bilbo's little makeshift bed, he was startlingly close without the iron spears between them. Bilbo greeted him, “O Smaug the Dragon,” and Bilbo, fast on his way to becoming an expert on the expressions of dragons, could tell that Smaug was very pleased at that, indeed.

After a few stories, the dragon roused and performed his ritual inspection of his hoard. Then he laid down to sleep, and Bilbo gathered his blankets and pillows and laid down also, and he fell asleep to the steady huffs of the dragon's breaths. It was perhaps the deepest, most carefree sleep Bilbo had experienced since leaving the Shire – he wasn't sure whether it was having blankets after so long without, or exhaustion catching up to him, or the simple fact that, whether Bilbo wanted there to be or not, there was now a _dragon_ guarding Bilbo as furiously as he did the rest of his hoard. Perhaps it was all three.

But in the morning Bilbo felt nearly jovial, and for once eager to share a story or two – he'd remembered a few good ones while he'd slept. But Smaug was still slumbering, and Bilbo took a moment to be disappointed about that, before he decided to do some exploring on his own. He tiptoed towards the stairway nearest to him, and was at the bottom step when Smaug rumbled, “Do not be long.”

Bilbo paused and turned a suspicious eye on the dragon, wondering, but all he could see from where he stood was the steady rise and fall of his enormous belly and the spines along the dragon's back, and this told him little. “Of course, O Smaug the Magnificent,” Bilbo said, and because well-rested or not his Tookish side had clearly taken him over and there was nothing for it now, he added dryly, “I shall detest every moment not in your esteemed presence.”

Smaug's snort sounded almost like a _laugh_ , and Bilbo thought about how he'd never heard Smaug make that noise before.

It felt so good to use his legs like this and to walk around, and Bilbo headed in the general direction that Smaug had taken them. Bilbo wavered between stepping quickly to give Smaug less time to question his decision to let Bilbo free and stepping slowly so as not to disturb the dragon's slumber and ended up splitting the difference and going at a brisk walk until he was through the entranceway and out of the dragon's sight.

Now, the question was how to take advantage of Bilbo's newfound freedom. The hidden passage and the front gate were of course out of the question, and it seemed too much to hope for that the dwarves' information was wrong and another exit from the mountain could be found. Bilbo could slip on his ring and attempt to hide, but Smaug had already proved he had a keen sense of smell, and besides, what good would hiding do if no one was coming to rescue him?

If Bilbo wanted to formalize an escape, he needed to familiarize himself as best he could with the mountain, though it was so large and complex if he was here for twenty years he didn't think he'll have explored it all. So he began taking frequent unsupervised trips around the mountain, and at each, Smaug would remain on his treasure-hoard and only tell him not to be long.

He found three other gates, but they were all quite unequivocally stoppered. He found a few chests of clothes, and after sorting through them found a few things that weren't comically oversized for him. He found another storage room, too, and made his best discovery yet: _a sealed jar of honey_. When he returned to the treasure-room from that find he spent the entire rest of the day extolling to Smaug on the wonders and majesty of honey. Smaug tolerated this for longer than you would think a dragon would, but when he pointedly huffed and turned his back to Bilbo, Bilbo said, “You're just jealous,” and it was several hours later that Bilbo realized the dragon had not disagreed.

* * *

At first, Bilbo thought he was only imagining the thrush that was suddenly perched on his shoulder. He was wandering again, through endless stone corridors and up and down endless stone staircases, the cool stone floor beneath his feet rumbling now and again whenever Smaug, back in the treasure-room, rolled over and growled and kicked his legs in his deep sleep, dreaming about whatever it was that occupied a dragon's dreams.

It was probably violent, and probably best not to dwell on.

The imaginary thrush chirped, and Bilbo said an absent, “Hello,” as he studied the large, polished plaque adorning the wall before him. He’d seen similar plaques now and then, clearly signposts, all of them carved with the same blockish letters which Bilbo recognized from Gandalf’s map. The language must be Khuzdul, the dwarven language, though that was the extent of Bilbo’s knowledge.

He certainly couldn’t read the sign, but he was getting better at remembering the order and shapes of the symbols. And as he was nearly positive that the last time he’d seen this combination he’d found another long-term storage supply room, he took the turn and hoped for the best.

Again a chirp, and it was such a strange sound to hear, after all this time when the only sounds were the huffs and puffs of a greedy dragon and Bilbo’s own voice growing hoarse by the end of each day from overuse. It must be two or three weeks at least that Bilbo had been here, and there hadn’t been even the hint of anything alive here but Bilbo and the dragon. Any bird or insect or other tiny creature with the least bit of sense would have fled all those decades ago as soon as the mountain began shuddering at Smaug’s arrival, and nothing (except for a lone hobbit, very much in over his head) would have been foolish enough to come back in.

It simply made more sense that the thrush was _not_ here than that the thrush _was_.

“I don’t suppose you know how to read Khuzdul?” Bilbo asked the imaginary bird. “Better yet, how did you get in? You wouldn’t happen to know the way out?” It chirped again, and Bilbo amused himself a bit by chatting with it as he wandered. “Not a good place to be visiting, I’m afraid. There’s a dragon just down that way. He hasn’t mentioned a preference either way towards eating thrushes, but I wouldn’t chance it. He must be starving – he hasn’t eaten for weeks and weeks, as far as I know. Not that I’d rather he’s out and about attempting to gobble up my friends, mind. But – well, it’s a bit worrying, if I’m being quite honest. I know what an empty stomach does to _my_ mood, after all.”

He kept up his idle chatter as he turned down corridors and peeked into rooms and tried to spot further plaques. He was about to call it a day and head back to Smaug when the bird let out a shrill, irritated sound. Then it _nipped_ his ear, and Bilbo yelped at the sharp prick of pain and stared, in shock, at the not-imaginary-at-all bird.

“You’re real,” he said. It chirped again and hopped up and down and then it flew off, only to circle back round. It did this twice more – ear-nipping and all – before Bilbo realized it was trying to lead him.

“So you _do_ know the way?” Bilbo asked, hardly daring to believe his luck. He took an eager step towards the bird, but then he hesitated, overcome with a sudden indecision. It was all well and good to scheme of ways to escape the mountain, but what happened after that? Were Thorin and the company even around anymore? Was Gandalf? Or with the entrances sealed and their burglar certainly dead and an angry dragon awoken, had they abandoned – or at the very least postponed – their quest? What if they were gone entirely? Bilbo would be alone. There was so much distance between Bilbo and his cosy Bag-End; there was no chance Bilbo could make that journey by himself and emerge alive.

If only Bilbo had some way of _knowing_.

If only cohabiting with a _dragon_ hadn’t somehow become the safest bet Bilbo could see.

If only it was not the closest thing to home Bilbo had felt since leaving, settled in his lovely mound of blankets in Smaug’s treasure-room with the heat in the dragon’s belly like a fireplace, telling stories and poems. It was almost nicer – here, Bilbo didn’t go to sleep alone.

The thrush chirped louder this time, and Bilbo shook himself out of these strange, dangerous thoughts and rushed after it.

If there was an exit, Bilbo was walking through it, and that was that, he told himself firmly.

Thankfully the thrush seemed to know the way because Bilbo was soon completely turned around. When the bird finally halted before a wall that looked the same to Bilbo as any other, it slipped through a tiny hole and then popped back in, chirping loudly.

Bilbo’s hopes dashed upon the stone floor. “What did you go bringing me here for?” he said. “I can’t possibly fit through that!” The bird chirped and fluttered and hopped around, and Bilbo felt suddenly foolish. It was just a _bird_. It hadn’t understood him. Hadn’t been trying to communicate with him. Bilbo’s head was too full of fables.

The hole was too high for Bilbo to even peer through, but if he stood on his tiptoes he could push his hand through, and though there must’ve been a great distance between his hand and the actual outside, he sighed at what he imagined was the slight hint of fresh air. He rested his forehead against the stone wall, and with the rush of excitement faded, he felt the slightest bit – _relieved_.

Oh Bilbo, he thought to himself. What have you got yourself into?

Bilbo said to the thrush, “Thank you for trying,” even though it turned out the thrush hadn’t, because Bilbo was nothing if not a creature of proper etiquette. “Come back if you’re found me a larger entrance.” He said good-bye and turned and left it to its shrill chirps and agitated hopping and puffed feathers and was halfway down the hall before he remembered that he hadn’t a clue where he was. When he turned around, though, the thrush was gone.

He came across a few of the plaques, but none were familiar so he took to guessing and he soon found himself in a narrow tunnel that opened into one of the great mine shafts. Bilbo hadn’t been this deep into the mountain before. He made to leave – the dwarves had spoken often enough of the beautiful complexity of the mines for Bilbo to know that if he went further this way, he really _would_ be lost for good – but something stayed him. Instead of turning around, Bilbo paused and surveyed the scene of decay and abandonment before him, and his breath caught.

He’d tried to focus only on surviving and not to dwell on it, before. The dwarves. Obviously everything he’d touched since entering here, from the cram to the pillows, belonged to someone else. Almost certainly someone dead. Someone killed by Smaug. Whenever Bilbo came across a bedroom during his explorations, he’d quickly backed out, believing that even a step inside was too disrespectful. Same for the studies and the libraries. He hadn’t looked too closely at the piles of bones near the smashed gates.

With most of his time spent in the treasure-room, spent focusing only on Smaug, it had been easy to not picture it. But down here ... Smaug hadn't been down here. Smaug _couldn’t_ be down here – his bulk couldn't fit through that tunnel and his interest must not have been enough that he would rend his own entrance. Here, out from beneath the dragon’s shadow, Bilbo couldn’t pretend not to see it.

The abandoned tools, dropped on the floor or propped against walls, the mugs and crates and wheeled carts, and even here the piles of bones and clothes in the corners. All of it moulded and covered in dust, and Bilbo could picture it clear as day. This place bustling with busy dwarves. This was what Thorin and his company were fighting so desperately to reclaim – not a mountain of gold, but this. Their home.

Smaug had no place in this mountain.

_Bilbo_ had even less of one. What did Bilbo think he was doing, gathering clothes and blankets and food and water and settling in like that? Those first few days, all Bilbo had thought about were ways to escape. Now all he thought about were good stories to tell. How could he feel relief that the thrush hadn’t been showing him an exit after all? For goodness sake, he was halfway _fond_ of the terrible old worm at this point.

Smaug was a _thief_ , stealing mountains and treasure and lives that were not his.

Smaug was a _monster_ , not just sharp mind and wit but sharp teeth and claws, too.

Smaug was _hungry_ , and undoubtedly getting hungrier every day.

But Smaug was not _just_ those things, and Bilbo wished very much he didn’t know that. Because this adventure was always going to end with the dragon’s death – it had to, and even if Thorin and his dwarves didn’t return for another two hundred years, it one day would. Bilbo just wished he didn’t have to have known the dragon first.

No question about it, Bilbo had to get out of this mountain, as soon as he could.

So lost in thought was he, the creature was practically beside Bilbo before he noticed it. But when Bilbo saw it, he gasped and he stumbled backwards and he would've fallen off the edge to the depths of the mines below if the creature's tail did not whip out to wrap around his waist, steadying him.

Bilbo stared. The creature was Man-like in form and stature, with long legs and rounded ears. But it was crouched, its pale skin was patched with mottled red scales, and it had a thick tail and tall wings and its fingers and toes ended in unnaturally sharp, pointed nails. Its eyes glowed red with tall, narrow pupils. It wore wrapped about its waist a glittering stretch of chain-mail, and necklaces with fat gems around its neck and bracelets up and down its arms and rings on its fingers and a crown on its head. Its presence was enormous beyond its size, as if its body could barely contain it, and only one explanation made sense except that it made no sense at all.

“ _Smaug_?” Bilbo said, when he could find his voice.

The sneer on the creature's face answered him – on any scale, that was not an expression Bilbo was likely to soon forget.

“I said not to be long,” the creature – _Smaug_ – snapped. His voice was likewise far too large for his current form. He scented the air, the bobs of his head precisely as Bilbo was used to seeing, but the incongruity of seeing _this_ Smaug do it caused Bilbo’s head to spin.

“But –”

“What is in the mines that you require?”

“Nothing,” Bilbo stammered. “I was lost. I –”

But Smaug was apparently uninterested in further explanation and merely turned around, dragging Bilbo along with his tail and forcing Bilbo to run to keep pace with his long stride. Even in this small form Smaug had to stoop when they went through the tunnel. When they reached the treasure-hoard, Smaug stopped and Bilbo, still running, smacked straight into his back. The tail around his waist tightened to prevent him from falling over, and once Bilbo was securely on his feet, Smaug said, “Do not return to the mines. They are dangerous, and you are clumsy and easily broken.”

Bilbo's mouth dropped open. Of all the – Bilbo most certainty was _not_ clumsy! “Anyone would've stumbled upon seeing a – a – a dragon suddenly appear as – as – as whatever you are! And I would like very much to see anyone else walk gracefully across a pile of gold! You don't count!” Bilbo retorted. If he'd any sense he would've stopped there, but he hadn't had any sense for days and continued, “And excuse me, but I have waltzed into troll lairs and goblin lairs and spider lairs and now a _dragon lair_ and I’m still alive and breathing! Easily broken, my hairy foot!”

“Ah,” Smaug said. “So it _was_ you, then, in those particular stories of yours? The brave and clever little hero. I thought so.” Before Bilbo had time to be properly furious with himself for being so careless, Smaug's face darkened, and oh, Smaug's teeth were still wicked-looking in this form. They were somehow worse, in fact, because while they were smaller they were also much, much closer. The dragon said, “I wonder if you also lived only at those creatures' leisure.”

The tail around Bilbo's waist tightened, and in this form Smaug was also still unthinkably strong. Bilbo could feel the pressure on his ribs as Smaug began muttering to himself words Bilbo could not much make out but which sounded very paranoid and very, very angry.

The tail kept tightening, and Bilbo didn't have the breath to even squeak, so Bilbo did the only thing he could and smacked his hands against Smaug's tail in hope of attracting his attention.

It worked – the second Bilbo's hand connected with Smaug's tail, Smaug ceased ranting mid-word and whipped his head around to stare at him, his gaze fixed upon where Bilbo's hands now rested on his tail. The dragon blinked once, very slowly, and Bilbo gestured emphatically at the situation as a whole until Smaug seemed to understand and unsnaked his tail from around Bilbo's form. While Bilbo gasped, hands on his knees, Smaug brought his tail before his face and inspected it as if he had never seen it before.

Then the dragon's expression smoothed and he turned his back on Bilbo, carefully and gently removing and setting down his jewellery piece by piece, and his belt next, and then his chain-mail, smoothing his fingers along each before he parted with them. Once he wore nothing but his own scaly skin, the dragon walked onto the hoard, and within ten steps he'd elongated and grown and was suddenly the massive dragon that Bilbo was somehow now accustomed to.

Bilbo rather wished the thrush was back just then, because he needed _something_ to nip his ear to prove that what he was seeing was real, and there was no way he was asking Smaug for a _nip_. Smaug circled his treasure and settled down and Bilbo waited for an explanation, because surely Smaug knew that there had to be one.

But Smaug said nothing as Bilbo walked across several gold mounds to reach his staircase, nothing while Bilbo climbed all the steps, and nothing when Bilbo ended up back on his little nest of blankets.

What Bilbo needed right now was his good long wooden pipe, a good-sized barrel of his finest pipe-weed, a good comfy armchair to lounge on, and a good long while to think over every choice in his life that had led him to this moment.

But Smaug kept saying nothing, and Bilbo was bursting with curiosity. After thinking on and discarding several questions – he had enough mind to know he should probably tread carefully – Bilbo settled on, “Can all dragons change like that?”

Smaug head tilt was puzzled, as if he couldn’t fathom why Bilbo would ask. “Perhaps,” he said.

“ _Perhaps_? You don't know?”

“Why would I know? Why would I _care_?”

“You've never seen another dragon do so?”

“What other dragon?” Smaug said.

“Not _here_ , of course,” Bilbo said. “I mean where you come from. Back home, wherever that is. Oh!” A thought belatedly occurred to Bilbo. “Unless dragons find it impolite to talk about?” Bilbo had never entertained the idea of dragon etiquette, and he spent a bizarre moment worrying about all the ways he may have inadvertently offended the dragon since being trapped here, and then he spent another moment worrying that he was worrying about it.

But Smaug only seemed more puzzled. He said, “Why would I talk to other dragons?” and it was on the tip of Bilbo's tongue to say, _Why wouldn't you?_ but he bit back the question and actually thought about it. He thought back to all those dragon-tales he knew, and try as he might, he couldn't actually think of a story that featured more than one.

It made sense, Bilbo thought. He imagined two or three or ten full-grown dragons in a room, all with a temper like Smaug's, and then rather wished he hadn't.

“When you were young, then?” Bilbo asked. “Did your parents teach you how?”

The dragon squinted at him, studying Bilbo as if Bilbo were as strange to him in that moment as he was to Bilbo. “Parents?” he repeated.

“Surely you must have parents!” Bilbo said. “Or had.”

“There are dragons who begot me, yes,” Smaug said.

“Those dragons, then,” Bilbo said. “Did you learn from watching them?”

“Dragon young do not stay with their begetters long enough to be taught such things,” Smaug said. “And even if they did, they would not be taught. Had I young of my own still I would not teach it to them, nor even hint at its existence. Why give them that advantage?”

“How is that an advantage?” Surely there was no greater advantage in all of Middle-Earth than being born a dragon.

Smaug considered Bilbo for a long moment, his tail tapping against the gold. “Tell me, Storyteller,” he said, “How do you believe I amassed all of the treasures in this room here without destroying the mountain itself?”

It seemed an odd question until Bilbo thought it through, and then he said “Oh,” finally understanding.

Before, he’d thought to himself that if he were in the mountain for twenty years he wouldn’t have explored it all. But Smaug had been here for two hundred. Once he’d chased everyone else out, once no one would dare enter the mountain again, Smaug would’ve felt secure enough to begin amassing his hoard. But the doorways and drawers and rooms weren’t built for his girth. A dragon couldn’t have searched every nook, every cranny, every corner, not without the risk of damaging the walls and ceilings and losing or crushing his treasures beneath an avalanche of rock.

That _would_ be an advantage. But if what Smaug said was true, how very lonely an advantage. “Your kin --”

“Enough of this,” Smaug said. “A story now.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, I’m asking for one,” Bilbo said.

To Bilbo’s surprise, Smaug said, “Very well,” and he tells one. Bilbo knew several dragon-tales, but that wasn't what Smaug told him. This was a dragon- _story_ , straight from a dragon's mouth. Smaug spoke of a Middle-earth Bilbo had never seen. He spoke mostly in colours and smells and temperatures, and he spoke from a great height looking down (and how had Bilbo never noticed his own stories were told from the ground looking up?). Smaug spoke about himself, and about what he saw and smelled and felt, and if any other creature were mentioned – be it a dragon or not – they were pieces of the scenery, inconsequential to Smaug's narrative. Smaug spoke of great events that changed entire landscapes, brushed away decades and centuries in mere sentences, and when he fell silent Bilbo nearly fell over he was leaning so far forward, enthralled.

“Thank you,” Bilbo said, and he meant it, because that was a gift if he had ever received one. “Please, will you tell another?”


	3. Chapter 3

Bilbo fell asleep with the deep rumble of Smaug's voice filling his ears and awoke with dragon-stories swirling through his head, and when he went to leave for his daily explorations, he hesitated by one of the tunnel entranceways. One foot through, one foot back, and then he turned around and marched up the gold to where Smaug's head rested and said, “Pardon me, Smaug?”

He tapped the side of the dragon's snout until Smaug twitched awake, but the jerk of his body caused a minor avalanche of treasure. Bilbo flailed his arms out and stumbled backwards and would've been buried if the dragon did not immediately scoop Bilbo up onto his palm and hold him above the gold while it settled.

Smaug sat back on his haunches and raised Bilbo to his own eye level. The dragon stared at him, and Bilbo, heart hammering, thought that in the future it would be wiser to wake Smaug up from a distance and wisest perhaps not attempt to wake Smaug up at all.

But there was no fire lighting up Smaug's belly, and the dragon seemed more startled than anything else, so Bilbo went ahead and said, “Smaug, I should like it if you joined me.”

“ _Join_ you?”

“Yes. While I go for my walk. I would like the company.”

“Join you while you search for an escape from me, you mean?” Smaug said.

“Yes,” Bilbo said, because he didn't see much sense in pretending at this point. Smaug must've known what Bilbo has been doing this whole time wandering these halls. Smaug wouldn't have smashed the exits if he thought Bilbo wouldn't walk through them, given the chance. But, then again, he wouldn't let Bilbo go wandering if he thought any exits remained.

As if to prove the thread of Bilbo's thoughts, Smaug said, “I have been thorough in my centuries here. There aren't any. Not a single one left unstoppered.”

“There don't seem to be,” Bilbo agreed. “Which is disheartening. Which is why I should like the company, so that at least I'm not feeling both disheartened _and_ lonely.”

The dragon raised Bilbo up even higher and lowered his head closer, squinting at him. Bilbo held on as best he could to the ridges in Smaug's palm and resolutely did not peer between Smaug's curled claws to look down at the ground that was much too far below. “You think I'll guide you away from where I suspect potential exits to be,” Smaug said, at last. “Then you shall know where to search when next I do not accompany you. I'm disappointed, Storyteller. I thought we were through with your obvious manipulations of me.”

But Bilbo wasn't thinking about plans (though Smaug's was a very good one, and Bilbo rather wished he'd thought of it first). He wasn't thinking about escape. He was only just awoken himself. He was thinking simpler thoughts: that he would like a walk, and that he would like to hear more dragon-stories.

“No tricks. I just would like the company,” Bilbo repeated. And then, since Smaug didn't seem any less susceptible to Bilbo's manipulations for all that he seemed quite aware of them, he added, “I would like _your_ company.” If the statement sounded sincere, if it weren't entirely manipulation, if there were the slightest ring of truth to it, well, Bilbo thought he would keep that to himself.

Smaug said, “You are lying. I already know you to be a liar,” but he said it like it was a question – like he wasn't quite sure. Like he wanted it not to be.

“Please, O Smaug,” Bilbo said, and Smaug's “Very well” was snarled as if to mask his uncertainty.

The dragon set Bilbo down on the floor near the tunnel entranceway, and then he instructed Bilbo to wait while he circled and inspected the entire treasure-room twice. Then Smaug gracefully morphed to his smaller form and again adorned himself with crowns and rings and bracelets and anklets and chains while Bilbo sighed and tapped his foot and finally took to circling the hall a bit, himself.

Bilbo was just contemplating returning to his food stores to eat a second breakfast of the hateful cram (only made bearable with a touch of honey) when he noticed a shining light from the corner of his eye. The Arkenstone. He'd quite forgotten all about it. He glanced at Smaug, who was far on the other side of the hoard and occupied with adorning his wings with baubles. Bilbo crouched down and brushed aside the coins partially covering the stone and lifted it. It was heavy in his palm, and magnificent, and for a moment Bilbo understood with biting clarity the lust in the hearts of dwarves and dragons for objects that are shining and achingly beautiful. Understood to his bones why Smaug luxuriated in treasure, draped himself in it, hoarded it, and killed for it.

And for reasons he did not feel like examining too closely, Bilbo did not put the Arkenstone down but instead tucked it inside his right pocket. A counterpoint to the surprisingly substantial weight of the gold ring in his opposite pocket.

When Smaug finally rejoined him the dragon sparkled and shined so brightly that Bilbo was nearly blinded every time he moved. Bilbo dutifully said _kingly_ and _august_ and _elegant_ while the dragon preened and Bilbo tried not to focus on the twin weights in his pockets. Smaug, however, wasn't through with his preparations. He wrapped his tail around Bilbo's midriff and gently led Bilbo back to his hoard.

Smaug chose pieces of his treasure, sniffed them and stroked them and licked them and held them up for Bilbo's inspection, and he said _First Age_ and _Second Age_ and _Third Age_ , and he said _red beryl_ and _blue garnet_ and _precious jadeite_ , and he said how they were forged, how they were given or won, how they were lost, and how they were found. Smaug slid gem-studded bands onto Bilbo's arms, and placed gleaming circlets upon Bilbo's brow, and draped silver-spun scarves over Bilbo's shoulders, and as he did so he named every dynasty that wore them before him.

When he was finished – when Bilbo could barely stand for the weight of the history Smaug had placed upon him – he stepped back and admired his efforts. Only then did Smaug gesture for them to proceed, but Bilbo had to blink very rapidly and shake his head to clear it before he turned and led them down the hallways. His adornments were heavy, but not as heavy as the avarice in Smaug's eyes whenever he looked at Bilbo. Bilbo did not fail to notice that Smaug left their path entirely up to his own choosing, never once steering Bilbo one way or the other.

At Smaug's prompting, Bilbo cleared his throat and told a story or two, and then at _Bilbo's_ prompting Smaug told one of his own that once again stole Bilbo's breath. Now and then Bilbo thought he heard the slight fluttering of wings, but whenever he turned to look there was never anything there. They had fallen into a strangely comfortable silence as they walked, just the clicks of Smaug's nails against the stone and the thump of Bilbo's feet, when Smaug halted and faced Bilbo and said, “What is it you seek beyond these walls?”

“How do you mean?” Bilbo asked.

“What is _there_ that you do not have here?” The dragon sounded genuinely frustrated, and Bilbo stopped and stared at him. Even when Smaug was in this form, Bilbo had to crane his neck to meet Smaug's eyes.

“You must know the answer to that,” he said.

“And why must I?”

Bilbo’s mouth opened and closed.

“I have provided for you all that you've requested,” Smaug continued. “Sustenance and drink. Comfort and companionship. A _home_. I listen when you speak. Very closely. You reveal more than you mean to, I think. Those provisions are what you value above all, and all of what you value I have provided and continue to provide. I _will_ continue to provide.” Smaug's voice rose, and his tail whipped side to side in agitation. “You're _mine_. You're supposed to stay! You are not to go! What more do you want?”

“Well…” Bilbo said, drawing out the word, giving himself time to think. Because it did not particularly sound like Smaug thought of Bilbo as a piece of treasure, to be kept and used at the dragon's whim. It didn't sound like he wanted Bilbo to stay because there weren't any exits. That sounded like he wanted Bilbo to stay because he _chose_ to stay.

Honestly, Bilbo would've thought Smaug would be tired at this point of dealing with a treasure that could talk back and plot escape. But if anything, Smaug only grew more and more possessive of him. For a creature that lived in solitude, Bilbo thought, Smaug was really quite desperate for company.

Bilbo thought to himself: I should use this. This was surely the sharpest weapon against Smaug he'd yet come across, and Smaug had handed it to him freely. But while Bilbo had no qualms about using Smaug's vanity or his greed or his temper against him, the thought of using the dragon's _loneliness_ in such a way made Bilbo's stomach twist.

So Bilbo didn't try to bargain, and he didn't try to trick. He said, his jewellery clinking with each of his gestures, “I can't live on cram and water forever. Nor can I sleep forever on a pile of stolen, mouldy blankets. I can't breathe this musty, old air forever, or wander these desolate halls forever. This isn't my home, Smaug. This isn't even _your_ home.”

“ _You think this is not my home_?” Smaug hissed, his lip curling and his wings flaring out and up so that the tips scraped against the ceiling.

“It’s not,” Bilbo said. And Bilbo was awash in sudden sadness for how _empty_ this hall was, how Smaug and Bilbo observed the hall but they didn't occupy it. They didn't fill it with light and life. “This is a worthless rock you stole and have decided to rot in. It’s not your home.”

“If it is as worthless as you claim, why are those wretched dwarves so keen to reclaim it?”

“Because it’s not just a rock to them. It wouldn’t be. They would actually _live_ here. Like they used to, until you took it from them.”

“I wanted a home!” Smaug snarled. “I wanted _this_ home!”

“Well, you can't just take one!” Bilbo said, though he knew there was no reasoning with a creature like Smaug. “That's not how things are supposed to work! You have to _ask_. Nicely. And if you're told no, then that's that.”

“I am _Smaug_. I am not told _no_. I do not _ask_. I take!”

Forcing himself not to match Smaug's temper, Bilbo said as evenly as he could, “I've _noticed_.”

Smaug studied him, his strange pupils intent. He said, “So you fault the sustenance and the drink and the comfort and the home I offer. What of my companionship?”

“I am more fond of your company than I should be,” Bilbo admitted. But Bilbo, though he was oftentimes foolish, was not a fool. He said, “But this is not companionship.”

Even from where he stood, Bilbo could feel the growing heat in each of Smaug's exhales. Bilbo thought he should be afraid, but at the same time he thought that there was very little to be afraid about. He stood his ground and faced the growing fury apparent in Smaug's every angle.

Smaug growled, “Very well,” and he wrapped his tail around Bilbo's waist and dragged him back to the treasure-hoard. No matter the anger clearly simmering within him, he was still careful and reverential when he removed each piece of his jewellery, and though he said not one word to Bilbo, his hands were gentle when he removed Bilbo's own adornments with equal care. Bilbo expected him to return to his dragon-form and to perhaps disappear back down the halls to indulge his temper away from the possibility of harming his possessions, but the dragon did not.

Instead, he reached for Bilbo, the large curl of his hand gently enfolding Bilbo's much smaller hand, and guided Bilbo back onto the hoard. Bilbo let himself be led, thinking that he'd probably provoked Smaug's temper far enough for one day. When they reached the top of the tallest treasure mound, he pushed at Bilbo until Bilbo was seated and then kneeled beside him. There was greed and banked anger in Smaug's expression, even more so than usual, and Bilbo thought perhaps a story was in order to soothe Smaug's mood.

But Smaug seemed for once uninterested. He settled close to Bilbo, and then he flung out his arms – a wide reach even in this form – and curled down into the gold in a practically violent motion, hugging treasure and Bilbo to his chest. Bilbo tensed from head to toe and gaped at the dragon, but Smaug only brushed his hands over the gold around them, rubbed his head into the gold beneath them, and rumbled deep in his throat. 

Smaug was comforting himself, Bilbo realised after several minutes of this had passed. The dragon was upset and attempting to comfort himself by basking in the things he hoarded and cherished and _needed_ with single-minded ferocity, and for whatever reason Bilbo was counted as one of them. The tension drained from Bilbo and was slowly, seamlessly replaced by the heady and _powerful_ feeling of being on the receiving end of such blind devotion. It occurred to him that he wasn't really Smaug's storyteller. Smaug was _his_ dragon, and the thought sent a tendril of warmth and wonder through Bilbo.

He didn't fight Smaug when he brought up one of Bilbo's arms and scented him. Goosebumps flared along Bilbo's skin when Smaug brushed his lips along Bilbo's palm in the same manner Bilbo has seen him do to his gold, but he dropped Bilbo's arm before alarm could properly set in.

Then Smaug picked up a goblet and did the same, running his lips along the gold. The enormous chamber they were in was feeling smaller and smaller, and Smaug beside him warmer and warmer, and thoughts of possession were making Bilbo's head spin, and he really could use a bit of space to breathe properly. He opened his mouth to tell Smaug this, but Smaug swallowed his words before he could speak them. His mouth was against Bilbo's and his great hands rose up to cradle Bilbo's head. Bilbo froze, Smaug scorchingly hot at every point they were touching and the dragon's pointed tongue licking at his lips. The dragon was kissing him. _Smaug_ was _kissing_ him – and it was not _unpleasant_ but it was also not _welcome_ and Bilbo's mind stuttered in shock, his pleased thoughts from moments before scattering.

And then Smaug pressed closer, his larger frame forcing Bilbo's down and one of his hands smoothing along Bilbo's side. His hand wandered low – began slipping underneath Bilbo's clothes, and with dizzying abruptness Bilbo suddenly registered what was happening.

Wild panic crashing through him, Bilbo shoved Smaug back as hard as he could, and though it must've felt like no more than a tap to the dragon, he nevertheless easily leaned back and away. Scrambling backwards, clumsy on the shifting piles of gold beneath him, Bilbo gasped, “Stop! Stop, what are you doing!”

The dragon frowned, but he made no move to follow Bilbo. “Providing more satisfactory companionship,” he said.

Bilbo felt his face heat. “That's not – that's not at all what I meant! No! Do not – do not do that again. Say you won't.”

“You do not enjoy touch?”

“That's not the point! That's not – But no, since you ask, no. Well, that is, some touch is quite lovely, but not – not that.” Bilbo smoothed his hands down his clothes, his racing heartbeat gradually calming as Smaug stayed a safe distance away. “Not _intimate_ touch. That I do not prefer at all, no.”

“From me?”

“From anyone,” Bilbo said. There was a _reason_ it has always just been Bilbo Baggins in Bag-End, no wife or husband or little hobbit lads and lasses. 

“You did not mind at first,” Smaug said.

That was a bit generous – Bilbo didn't have much in the way of luxury or choice to _mind_ most things Smaug did – but it was also a bit true. “Perhaps,” Bilbo said. “But you still didn't ask. Say you won't again. Promise it, Smaug! Or I'll never tell you a story again!”

Smaug huffed and settled back down onto the gold, but he left a foot of space between them. He said, “It does me no favour if this is how you react.” He turned on his side to face Bilbo, one of his vast wings crooked above them both. “Tell me, then. If not this, in what way is my companionship lacking?”

“Because I didn't have a choice,” Bilbo said. “Because I wasn't asked. Because if I asked you if I could leave, you would tell me no.”

“I see,” Smaug said, his expression unfathomable, though he notably did not disagree. Suddenly exhausted from this bit of excitement, Bilbo fell back against the gold and settled down, too, facing Smaug. Smaug's red eyes were open and staring right at Bilbo, and when Bilbo realised nothing more was forthcoming, that Smaug would make no other attempt to approach him, Bilbo slowly relaxed, limb by limb.

Smaug began telling a sleepy, rumbling story; Bilbo was much too tired to make much sense of it, and he focused mostly on the soothing, deep cadence of his voice. This was – well, it wasn't _comfortable_ , not with treasure digging into his back and his stomach rumbling from missing another meal or three and certainly not knowing he was trapped in this mountain with a dragon who seemed to want him to stay here forever.

But on the other hand, this was, in fact – well, it was very nice indeed, if Bilbo didn't examine the circumstances too closely. He was close enough to hear Smaug's steady breaths, close enough to feel the warmth Smaug radiated without having to be _too_ close, almost cosy with one of Smaug's wings overhead blocking most of the vast chamber from sight. Without quite meaning to Bilbo dozed while listening to Smaug's rumbling. And although there was no sense of time within this mountain, when Bilbo woke to the sound of gentle clinking, it felt like the hush of a quiet, peaceful morning.

Peering around Smaug's wing, he saw that the dragon was scooping up handfuls of coins and allowing them to falls through his fingers, again and again. In this form, Smaug's tail thumping lazily against the gold barely made a sound. “Storyteller,” Smaug prompted.

In answer, Bilbo didn't tell a story. Not precisely. He made absolutely certain to make not a single mention of the Shire or hobbits, and especially not of Bag-End, but in a hushed voice Bilbo spoke, longingly, of his home. Of his round door and his cobblestone walkway, of his plants and his rock garden and his porch, and of his pantry and his parlour-room and his drawing-room. Of the trinkets on his shelves, and the silverware in his drawers, and the handkerchiefs and waistcoats in his wardrobe. Of the creeks and the gentle rolling hills and the sun in the midday sky.

When Bilbo fell silent, Smaug said, “This was your home?”

“It is,” Bilbo said, because there was still hope in him that it one day would be again.

Smaug took another handful of gold and reached over and gently emptied it onto Bilbo’s belly. The dragon said, “This is mine.”

* * *

A thought took hold in Bilbo's mind, then, and kept resurfacing. It wasn't a thought he was particularly pleased to be having, but there it was all the same. It was this: If they weren't _here_ , if Bilbo had access to more of the comforts of home (and here he was of course thinking primarily of food), if he had some guarantee of the safety and fate of his friends, then cohabiting with the old worm would be, well, very nearly agreeable.

They wandered the mountain halls together, and Bilbo had always loved a good walk. Sometimes Smaug was in his enormous dragon form and sometimes in his smaller man-like form, and they exchanged story after story. Smaug was becoming a better and better audience. When Bilbo mourned the loss of his pipes and explained smoking and smoke rings and pipe-weed, Smaug listened intently. Then his belly began glowing, and Bilbo all but tripped over himself to back away, but Smaug only pursed his lips and blew puffs of grey smoke until he could form little rings.

“Impressive,” Bilbo said, when he'd caught his breath and realised this was all Smaug intended. Privately he thought it wasn’t much to write home about and that if he had a pipe, he could've done much better. Back in the treasure-room, back to his enormous form, Smaug puffed and huffed and filled the chamber with dozens of rings as large as houses, and quickly enough progressed to all sorts of shapes and patterns, and Bilbo's praise this time round was completely sincere.

They slept near one another. Sometimes Bilbo in his little nest of blankets, Smaug leaning against a column nearby with his enormous head resting on the stone next to Bilbo. Sometimes when Bilbo dozed off while they sat side by side on the treasure-hoard, he would wake to the peculiar sensation that the entire ground beneath him was moving and realise Smaug had moved him to _lay on Smaug's stomach_ , and that the movement was each one of Smaug's great breaths.

Other times when Bilbo dozed off, he would find Smaug still in his smaller form, close by and watching him with his expression an intense mix of greed and fondness. And it was Bilbo who day by day closed that distance, bit by bit, seeking warmth, seeking closeness, seeking comfort. And when eventually Bilbo allowed Smaug's embrace, on the condition that that was all it was, Smaug would hold him close and scent him and murmur wondrous stories into Bilbo's ears. A pleasing, rumbling, _happy_ sound would emerge from the dragon's belly, and Bilbo would merely sigh and think that this was not bad, not bad at all.

When this happened, however, Smaug never slept. When Smaug required true sleep he returned to his larger form, and Bilbo puzzled over that until the thought occurred that in certain matters, perhaps the dragon trusted Bilbo little more than Bilbo trusted him.

Later, Bilbo will be ashamed of himself at how easily Smaug wore him down. How Bilbo had not only resigned himself to this fate beneath this not quite lonely mountain, but had begun actively enjoying it. But this was hardly Bilbo's fault. He was just one, simple hobbit in over his head. How was he to guard against the ancient wisdom and charm and intelligence of O Smaug the Cunning, the Shrewd, the Terrible?

Later, Bilbo won't like to think about what would've happened if the thrush hadn't returned. But he also won't much like thinking about what happened after it did.

When Bilbo saw the thrush for the second time, he was alone but the thrush was not. He'd left Smaug slumbering peacefully on his treasure-hoard and gone wandering himself. He heard the fluttering before he saw the source, and suddenly there was the thrush again and beside it an old raven. The old raven hopped up to Bilbo and said in an ancient but clear voice, “Well met, Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End. My name is Roäc son of Carc. I am the Chief of the great ravens of the Mountain.”

“You can speak ordinary language?” Bilbo exclaimed.

“That I can. And I have for you a message. Now, the thrush, may his feathers never fall, was sent here by Thorin son of Thrain to determine what had become of you.”

Bilbo pointed to the thrush and said, “So you meant me to follow you after all!”

The thrush twittered and preened, and Roäc said, “We had not known you did not understand bird-speech. The thrush, upon finding you, merely meant to tell you that you have not been abandoned! That you _and_ this Mountain will soon be free of the dragon's clutches.”

At that announcement, Bilbo's heart did a funny thing. It swelled and it shrivelled at the exact same moment, and he felt both elation and dread, warmth and chill.

“Now I bring you news, both good and grave,” Roäc said. And the old raven explained thus:

Bilbo had been under this mountain for two months. For weeks the thrush searched the mountain for a way inside with the sole purpose of seeking Bilbo out and learning his fate, whatever that may be. And the news of Bilbo's continued existence was welcome indeed.

Outside the mountain, however, the outlook was grim. Everyone had felt beneath their feet the great old dragon's rumbling. Had heard the distant roars and bellows. Everyone knew that the front gate was crashed and the secret side entrance smashed and that inside, the dragon was very much awake.

Everyone was asking themselves: _What is old Smaug the Terrible planning?_

Thorin and his company of dwarves left, spirits low, for Lake-Town, where they had been lodging and despairing and fruitlessly planning alternative strategies to reclaim their mountain home and all but concluded that their cause was lost to them. They may have sent the thrush, but they had little hope that the news the thrush returned with would be favourable.

The People of Lake-Town have been quailing, the women and children fleeing, all in fear that any day old Smaug would emerge and reign terror down upon them and at last be Lake-Town's downfall as he was once Dale's.

A man of Lake-Town named Bard, however, has let out a rallying cry. The dwarves woke the dragon and refused to deal with the consequences, he cried. The Men of Lake-Town cannot sit idly by waiting for death. No, they must take action! They must flush out the dragon and slay that old beast once and for all, or else they and their children and their children's children will never know true freedom or safety. A risky proposition, that, but Bard was a persuasive man, and his words reached not only into the hearts of the Men of Lake-Town but all the way to Mirkwood.

The Men of Lake-Town were gathering, arming themselves and laying out plans, and so too the elves of Mirkwood, now in alliance with them.

And they all said this: the dwarves have forfeited their claim. Erebor and its riches will fall to whomever fells the dragon.

This rekindled the fire in Thorin and his company, and Thorin sent word to his cousin Dain in the Iron Hills, and a great army of dwarves now also marched towards them.

But that was not all, the old raven said.

Upon arriving and learning that the secret entrance was collapsed and the burglar almost assuredly dead, the great wizard Gandalf had fallen into a terrible temper. But when the thrush reported Bilbo's existence, Gandalf had taken immediate action. He refused to abide Bilbo's imprisonment and had sent for the aid of the Eagles who even then flew towards them.

There were many armies gathering, Roäc said, and alliances were shifting and at dire cross-purposes.

“But what good if they cannot get _into_ the mountain?” Bilbo asked, his head spinning. “Smaug will not do them the favour of opening the front gate!”

“Gandalf will not leave you here,” Roäc said firmly. “He will open a door if it tears this Mountain in twain. What happens then – what happens when the armies clash with the dragon and with themselves ...” The raven shook itself, his feathers ruffled. “I do not know. Hide yourself, Bilbo Baggins. Find yourself some place safe and secure until Smaug is slain and you are free. But first tell me, Hobbit. In your months here, is there any weakness of Smaug's you have found? Anything at all that might help our cause and yours?”

There was. Bilbo had noticed it early on – the cleft in the armour of Smaug's underbelly, apparent in both of Smaug's forms. In the span of a heartbeat Bilbo's mind whirled with everything that could happen now, all of the bloodshed and the loss and the grief, and he came to a sudden, hardened decision. He described the weakness to the birds without hesitation, because it wasn't going to matter.

There wasn't going to be a war, not if Bilbo had anything to say about it.

Roäc thanked him and bid him farewell, and he and the thrush flew off with a reminder to keep himself safe and that it would only be a short time now, but Bilbo knew what he had to do. He took his time returning to the treasure-hoard, even though he knew every second now counted more than he could imagine.

He turned over arguments in his head, and when he reached Smaug on his treasure-hoard, he knew that now was not the time for crafty manipulations that would only go wrong on him. He had to get this right the first time; there was more than just himself at stake. So he said, clearly as he could, “You have to leave this mountain, Smaug. You have to leave now. I will go with you, I'll _stay_ with you, but you must leave.”

Smaug huffed and he gracefully shifted to his smaller form. Leaning back on his hoard, Smaug merely tiled his head and scented the air and said, “You've been consorting with winged trespassers.”

“Smaug, you must listen to me,” Bilbo said. “You must do what I say.”

“And that is to leave. Do tell me, why?”

So Bilbo recounted to Smaug precisely what the raven had recounted to him – about the gathering armies, the impending bloodshed, the shifting alliances, all while dread and panic ate at him. Logically, reclaiming a mountain from a dragon was never going to go smoothly, Bilbo had known right from the start. He'd signed the contract anyway. But this – this was different. This was _war_. And Bilbo would do anything in his (albeit limited) power to help.

“It sounds as if there will be war and bloodshed whether I am here or not.,” Smaug said, waving a dismissive hand.

“I'm not asking you to stop it,” Bilbo said. “I'm asking you to just not make it worse! Please, Smaug, tear yourself an exit and _leave_. This is _not your home_. This is _not your gold_. Please. For me, just for one moment look past your greed, please.”

“You cannot imagine I will actually comply?”

Bilbo licked his lips, and he knew how dangerous this next argument could be for him, how much it gave away when even now he'd been careful to keep secrets from Smaug, but he had little choice. He said, “There was a contract. Before I joined with the dwarven company, I signed a contract. It promised me a fourteenth share of any profits. Take it. Take a fourteenth of this hoard, take as much as you can carry – I'll help, even – and then leave. I'll leave with you. I'll go with you wherever you go, so long as wherever we end up is got peacefully. I swear this to you.”

“Why would I take a fourteenth share when I can have the full amount? When I already _have_ you?”

“But you won't. This war – there are _armies_ marching here! This is not like before. They're prepared for you.”

“Considering how many of them will be fighting one another rather than me, I think my chances quite good.”

“I evened their chances,” Bilbo said.

For the first time since their conversation began, Smaug straightened, and his eyes darkened. Every tap of his tail against the gold was harsher than the one before. “How so?” he said.

“I told them where to aim,” Bilbo said. “So you see,” and here Bilbo's voice wavered, because he knew that if this was a misstep, it would not be on _Bilbo_ that Smaug's wrath would fall. "Your chances are less than you think. They know you are not infallible, your armour not impenetrable. For _your_ sake, do not fight against my friends."

“I wonder,” Smaug sneered, his teeth gleaming, and Bilbo recognised with a start the Smaug he had first met, two months ago. “I wonder at how fickle your affections are, Storyteller. How _unreliable_. I wonder what your friends will make of your time here with me. What will you tell them, I wonder? I wonder what your true motivation is: To prevent the death of your friends … or mine.”

Bilbo, if he was being frightfully honest with himself, didn't know. He didn't want that to be the choice before him. But if Smaug were not swayed by treasure or threat, Bilbo had no other means of persuading him.

Smaug studied him, as if he knew every frantic thought in Bilbo's head, and then he stood and he said, “What is the gold you carry in your pocket?”

Bilbo froze. He blinked at Smaug, rapidly, and he cleared his throat, and he forced his hand to remain at his side and not immediately clutch the ring in his pocket. “Sorry?” he said.

“The piece of gold. I smelt it when first you came down into my mountain and have smelt it on your person ever since. It smells small and very pure. What is it?”

Again, Bilbo blinked rapidly. He forced his breathing to be steady. “Of course – of _course_ I smell like gold, Smaug. I've been – I've been all but sleeping on it for weeks. Of course you smell gold on me.”

“But it is not _my_ gold. I know the smell of my gold, as you well know, and nothing of mine smells quite like _that_. It's curious. No matter what clothes you wear, always I smell that little piece of gold on you. When I frighten you, your hand reaches into your pocket and you fondle it. It is the first thing you reach for when you wake, and the last thing you touch before you sleep.” Again, Smaug asked, “What is it?”

That wasn't true, was it? Bilbo did not reach for the ring that often. That couldn't be true. Bilbo would've noticed. “Nothing,” Bilbo said, as firmly as he could. “Just a trinket. I don't see – I don't see what it matters.”

Smaug wandered closer, too close, and Bilbo felt stuck to the spot. Smaug stopped in front of him, and Bilbo could feel his every warm breath. “You have three stolen things in your pockets,” Smaug announced. “I only know the contents of two, however. You must forgive my curiosity. It is in my nature.”

“Three – I do not have – that is not –”

Smaug reached out a hand, and one of his too-sharp nails tapped Bilbo's right pocket. Bilbo's breath caught. “The Arkenstone, of course. That's what you came here for. You eyed it constantly, and you snatched it as soon as you believed you could get away with it. I didn't mind. It makes it no less mine if you carry it on your own person.”

“Fine,” Bilbo said. “Yes – yes, You're right. I have the Arkenstone. And I'll return it to you. I didn't –”

“And you've got _me_ in a pocket, haven't you?” Smaug continued, as if Bilbo hadn't spoken. “This one, I think,” he said, tapping the pocket over Bilbo's left breast. “Whatever you are, Storyteller, you are a cold people, to ruthlessly use a creature's affections against himself.”

“That's absurd,” Bilbo said, his voice high and thin. “I haven't – if anything, _you've_ – you're not in _my_ –”

“You have exquisite taste,” Smaug said. “Anything under this mountain you could have taken, but all you coveted, the only thing to you worth stealing, was its king,” he tapped again Bilbo's breast pocket, “and its heart,” and he tapped again Bilbo's right pocket.

Bilbo swallowed, heavily.

“This tells me that whatever this third thing you stole is, this thing you would kill for, this thing that, when you hold it, your expression makes you resemble my kin – whatever is in _this_ pocket,” Smaug tapped Bilbo's left pocket, “It must be beyond imagining.”

“That's not –” Bilbo's mouth was so dry. His mind so blank with panic and wordless dread. How did Smaug get him so off track? “I have never – I would never _kill_ – I wouldn't.” Except Bilbo now was picturing that giant spider that for a single moment had stepped between Bilbo and Bilbo's gold ring, and he could hear again the thunks and thuds of his sword smashing its skull long past when its many legs stopped twitching.

Smaug couldn't know what Bilbo was thinking – he _couldn't_ – but Smaug curled his lip in a toothy grin. The dragon didn't blink and he never took his eyes from Bilbo's. “Keep what's in this pocket, with my consent,” the dragon said, tapping the Arkenstone. “Keep what's in this pocket, as well,” he continued, almost as an afterthought, tapping the one over Bilbo's heart.

Smaug stepped back, but even with the space between them Bilbo could not breathe. “Give me what's in that pocket,” Smaug said, pointing to Bilbo's left pocket. He held out a hand. “Give me what's in that pocket, and I'll leave, just as you've asked. I will leave in peace, and find a new home in peace. If there is war and bloodshed, let those petty armies slaughter their way through their own petty squabbles, and I will partake in no war and shed no blood. I promise you this.”

This must be the simplest, clearest decision Bilbo has had to make since leaving the Shire! He could not have asked for an easier solution! Fine. This was easy. Bilbo rolled his shoulders, and he nodded. He cleared his throat and straightened his back. His hand was now clutching the ring in his pocket, though, which he didn't remember doing. The ring in his grip felt like it weighed more than this entire mountain. Smaug's hand between them didn't waver.

“I won't take it from you,” Smaug said. “That's not how the world ought work, according to you, is that not right? We oughtn't _take_. We must ask. Nicely, even. Please, Storyteller, may I have your trinket, in exchange for all that you've asked of me, which is only _everything_ that I have and am?”

“Yes, asking. Nicely,” Bilbo said, hand spasming around the ring. “Of course.” He cleared his throat, and he couldn't hear over the pounding of his heartbeat. Couldn't think over the buzz in his mind. Couldn't see for the dark creeping into his vision.

An endless moment later, Smaug snorted and dropped his hand. He took another step back. “Speak no more to me of thievery, _Burglar_. Speak no more to me of greed. Let those armies pound at my doors, and if they should break through, they will deserve what befalls them.”

Turning his back to Bilbo, Smaug retreated to the centre of his treasure-hoard. He didn't change to his larger form but settled down, carding his fingers and tail and toes through the gold with pointed insolence.

Only when Bilbo removed his hand from his pocket, only when the immediate threat of losing his ring was fully gone, could Bilbo think again, and breathe.


	4. Chapter 4

Bilbo set about ignoring Smaug, which was not an easy thing to do with a creature whose presence took up a mountain regardless of his actual physical size. But Bilbo was furious, and he was scared, and he didn’t know what he’d been thinking attempting to appeal to Smaug like that. Assuming that the promise of Bilbo’s company meant anything to Smaug when the price was the dragon’s stolen hoard and his stolen home.

_Stupid_ hobbit, Bilbo thought to himself. All this time Smaug had been making himself steadily smaller – in temperament, in size. If he'd considered it at all, Bilbo – _stupid_ , stupid Bilbo – had thought it done out of an attempt to make Bilbo feel less small.

But dragons didn’t operate out of affection or kindness. They operated – always, always, _always_ – out of greed. Out of malice. Bilbo knew this. He’d known it from the start. Smaug wasn’t lowering his own guard; he was ensuring Bilbo lowered _his_. And Bilbo had, despite how he reminded himself again and again to resist the dragon's thrall. Oh, he had. What had he done with his enormous advantage in knowing what was transpiring outside these mountain walls? He’d rushed to tell Smaug every last detail, and then he'd appealed to the dragon’s sense of _decency_.

Of course Smaug had no interest in Bilbo’s appeals or negotiations. Of course it came down to curiosity at what Bilbo had in his pockets.

Speaking of which, how dare he! Bilbo reached again into his pocket (as he'd been doing every few minutes) and grasped his ring, reassuring himself it was still there. This was not the same thing at all. How dare Smaug condemn Bilbo for having it! How dare Smaug _ask_ that of him!

Not that standing firm was doing Bilbo any favours now. Bilbo was not only without any tricks of his own left or a clue of what he was to do, but he was also queasy with betrayal. He’d allowed Smaug to be so close to him, both mentally _and_ physically. He’d _wanted_ Smaug to be, and that was not something Bilbo was particularly accustomed to wanting.

Bilbo couldn’t trust himself. Not anymore. So he did the only thing he could and that was to ignore the dragon. He ignored Smaug’s requests for stories and then his demands for stories. He turned as best he could a deaf ear when Smaug offered his own. He ignored Smaug when the dragon followed him as Bilbo wandered the halls, searching to no avail for the thrush and the old raven in hope they might have returned with more news. Bilbo absolutely ignored Smaug when he tried to tempt Bilbo into laying beside him, and he had to bite his tongue not to break his silence and tell Smaug in no uncertain terms what Bilbo thought about _that_.

One morning (or afternoon or evening, what did it matter?), while Bilbo huddled miserably in his nest of blankets, Smaug climbed the stairs to reach him and crouched down right in front of Bilbo, though he left several feet between them.

“You mean to return to your home,” Smaug announced. His voice was softer than usual, like banked flames, though it still echoed off the walls. “You plan on sneaking out at your first opportunity, and you'll return home and not dare look behind you. You won't bother with any of my treasure. You don't want it.”

Crouched like that, his voice like that, and his fingers curled to hide the deadly sharpness of his nails, Smaug seemed almost harmless. Bilbo could not trust a word the sneaky dragon said. He turned his back to the dragon and brought his arms around his drawn knees.

“That has always been your plan,” Smaug said.

“Did you think it wasn't?” Bilbo couldn't help but mutter.

He peeked over his shoulder and saw Smaug's tail twitching from side to side in agitation. “I do not know,” Smaug said. “I cannot – you're difficult to predict.”

Bilbo turned away again, and he heard Smaug's nails begin to tap against the stone. “You are _embarrassingly_ easy to predict,” Bilbo said, which wasn't always true – especially when Bilbo was being foolish and forgetting what Smaug was. But the comment made Smaug hiss, and Bilbo smiled to himself in grim satisfaction.

“Your initial offer to me was not honest.”

How dare Smaug, really.

“Your word cannot be trusted,” Smaug said.

Bilbo glared at the floor before him. The hair on his feet was filthy. He wanted to be home in a drawn bath filled with bubbles.

“You would have told them my true secret, if you have not already. I would have sneaked out in this, my more vulnerable form, and met an ambush.”

“I didn't and I wouldn't!” Bilbo snapped. If he were a dragon his belly would've been blindingly white with fire.

“You told them my other vulnerability.”

“Well, I needed _something_ to convince you!” A pounding started in Bilbo's head.

“You would never have accompanied me,” Smaug said.

“Stop twisting me about!” Bilbo said. “And I'll have you know my word happens to be quite good.”

“I know you happen to be very good with your words. You would have talked yourself out of the arrangement at the first opportunity.”

Would he have? Bilbo hadn't considered that far ahead. He'd been too busy throwing every argument at Smaug at his disposal. Well, it was hardly worth thinking about now.

Bilbo raised his hands over his ears, his head aching – and then he realised that the pounding was not coming from his head at all. He glanced back at Smaug, who was now staring in the direction of the front gate.

“Please don't hurt anyone,” Bilbo whispered. “Please.”

Smaug turned then to stare at Bilbo, and Bilbo could not read him at all. “I enjoyed your company, Storyteller,” Smaug finally said, and he straightened and leapt down from the walkway to land lightly on the gold.

Within one of Bilbo's heartbeats, Smaug had returned to his enormous form. A second heartbeat later, Smaug threw back his head and roared, the sound shuddering the mountain. A third heartbeat, and Smaug was charging towards the entrance at full speed. A fourth heartbeat, and he was out of Bilbo's sight.

Within five heartbeats, Bilbo heard the deafening crash of the front gate, and then chaos.

* * *

Bilbo wasn't witness to Smaug's fate, as he was frozen to the spot at Smaug's charge. Smaug had shown his true face, and it was _not_ the face he'd shown to Bilbo. But Bilbo would later swear he heard the great splash. Felt the ground shudder. And there was no question he heard the cheers.

Smaug the Terrible was no more.

Forcing himself to move and not to think, not yet, Bilbo slipped on his gold ring and finally ventured out. He eased himself around the ruins of the front gate, and when he was through his mouth dropped open at the sight of the gathered armies. The legions of men and dwarves and elves were armed and milling about, and though there was yelling and arguing and aggressive posturing, there was no fighting yet. Bilbo snuck unseen through the ranks, picking up bits and pieces of conversation as he went.

They'd planned to lead Smaug to Lake-Town, where Bard awaited with arrow ready. They needn't have bothered – Smaug had charged straight there and was pierced by Bard's arrow before he could let lose a single belch of flame. The entire river shuddered at Smaug's impact, and then he was below the water, and gone. Over before it started. And now with their common enemy gone, the armies turned to one another in distrust and anger.

The leaders of the armies – Bilbo heard the names Thorin and Dain and Thranduil and Bard, though he could not see them among the masses – were arguing heatedly over rights and gold and recompense.

Bilbo climbed one of the outer ridges of the mountain to gaze over the armies until he spotted the dwarf encampment. He headed in that direction; it took a lot of persistent shoving to get through most of the crowds, and he left a trail of arguments and people accusing one another of pushing them. Eventually he found them – Thorin's company, everyone but Thorin present. For a long moment, Bilbo just took in their familiar faces. Then he slipped off his ring and stepped into the middle of their gathering without any fanfare, and the expression on the faces of all twelve dwarves was nearly enough to bring a smile to Bilbo's face.

For a moment, Bilbo found comfort in knowing that no matter what came next, the worst was over – even though he was blinking back sudden tears and his throat felt itchy and clogged and his heart didn't know what to do. He was surrounded by astonished, beaming friends and thumped on the back and hugged so furiously he was lifted off his feet no less than twenty times by ten different dwarves.

There was a commotion, and then Thorin himself pushed through the crowd and stared at Bilbo for so long and so intently Bilbo nearly buckled under the weight of his gaze. Finally Thorin shook himself and in two swift steps reached Bilbo and clutched Bilbo to him. “Burglar,” is all Thorin said, his voice thick, and Bilbo hugged back just as tightly, squeezing his eyes closed and forcing himself to breathe.

The worst was over, Bilbo thought. Whatever happened next, Bilbo's role in the matter was finished. All that was left was to go home; and though homesickness had dogged him his entire journey, never had he felt its pang so keenly than in that moment.

But then the cry began, soft at first and with increasing volume – _Orcs! Goblins! Wargs!_ Hundreds of them! _Thousands_!

The gathered armies were ambushed on all sides, and at once the grievances between Men and Dwarf and Elf were set aside as they joined to fight back this common foe. Bilbo was ordered to find cover, and he again slipped on his ring and hurried to do so. Overwhelmed and nearly trampled at every step, he was soon turned around and panicked when he was struck on his head. He slumped to the ground and spent the rest of the war unconscious. He was only found after all the excitement had ended, when he awoke to the sound of his name being called and realised he needed to take off the ring to be seen.

He learned that the Eagles had arrived just when hope was lost and turned the tide of war. He learned that the dwarves had retaken Erebor and that recompense had been arranged for the men and the elves, and that the men and the elves were retreating in good faith.

All of that Bilbo heard as in a blur, for he learned also that Thorin was on his deathbed. He was taken to see his dear friend, and Bilbo knelt beside him, and he exchanged last words, and then he retreated to the corner to weep.

The dragon was dead and sunk beneath the water.

The Arkenstone was laid to rest with its king under dirt and stone.

And Bilbo thought it was only fitting he should empty his last pocket, but no matter how he argued with himself, he could not bring himself to part with his shining gold ring.

When Bilbo finally began his long journey home, accompanied by the elf-host and Gandalf and Beorn, his heart was heavier than the gold- and silver-filled chests his pony carried and his gold ring was weighing down his pocket. He didn't want the treasure, he didn't want _anything_ , but his friends had insisted it was only right and Bilbo had been too tired to argue.

They parted ways with the elves at Mirkwood, and spent a spell at Beorn's home, and spent an even longer spell at the Last Homely House with Elrond. And from time to time Gandalf would look at him and seem about to speak, but then he would always turn away and leave whatever it was unsaid. He did not ask Bilbo about his months under Erebor, and Bilbo was doing his best not to dwell on his own actions or the dragon's during that time, so he did not volunteer the stories.

Bilbo, frankly, had had enough of stories – both of telling them and of living them. Bilbo would like to be home, left alone with his pipe and his books, and get back to simply reading them.

But despite Bilbo's efforts Smaug crept constantly into his thoughts, even though a creature that size had no right thinking he could fit comfortably in a hobbit's head. And Bilbo was ashamed remembering his time under the mountain, and twice as ashamed to know he would actually rather miss the old worm. Not that Bilbo would ever dare tell anyone that some of his tears he'd shed since the war were for the fallen dragon.

And then, somehow, after a long, sorrowful journey, after adventure and a war and the death of far too many friends, Bilbo was returned home. Coming to a rise at the very edge of the Shire, Bilbo could see his own Hill in the distance. He sighed and he murmured to himself, “Roads go ever on and on.”

Gandalf turned to him, and he said, “My dear Bilbo. You are not the hobbit that you were.”

“I do not feel like the hobbit I was,” Bilbo said.

“Yet you are every bit as remarkable as I always knew you to be.”

Bilbo had nothing to say to that.

“You saved many lives this journey, Bilbo. I don't think you understand how many and in how many ways.”

Even if that were true, which it was not, Bilbo hadn't saved enough. He hadn't saved anyone when it mattered. He shook his head, his throat too closed to speak.

Gandalf laid a kindly hand on Bilbo's shoulder and squeezed. He said, “This won't be the last time we meet,” and then he tipped his hat to Bilbo and bid him farewell.

The last remaining distance Bilbo walked on foot and at last alone, one hand on the pony’s reins. He walked along an achingly familiar pathway and passed familiar hobbits. They all froze and stared at him and whispered furiously to each other when he passed them by. Bilbo supposed he’d have to get used to that. He'd let his Tookish side get the better of him and disappeared for more than a year, and now he was returned, leaner and sadder and with a pony laden with two chests of gold and silver that would only serve to remind him of sad things.

Bilbo knew with heavy heart that while his journey may be ended, nothing for him would ever be the same again.

There was a sign on the ground by his front entrance; it was slashed and crumpled and the ink smudged and, even stranger, its edges were scorched. Bilbo picked it up and straightened it and could just make out words stating that on June twenty-second, Messrs. Grubb, Grubb, and Burrowes would sell by auction the effects of the late Bilbo Baggins Esquire, of Bag-End, Underhill, Hobbiton, the sale to commence at ten o’clock sharp.

That was days ago! Bilbo groaned to himself. And here he thought his worries were finally come to an end!

No wonder he’d got such looks, if everyone believed him dead and all his things auctioned off. Anyone who got an especially good deal at the sale was going to be quite put out by Bilbo's reappearance. The Sackville-Bagginses in particular; Bilbo would bet that they'd begun lining their shelves with Bilbo's effects the moment he was out of sight and then took the rest at the auction. It was fortunate Bilbo had so much gold and silver after all; he was going to need the contents of both chests to buy his things back, and even that might not be enough!

No more adventures, Bilbo swore to himself for the hundredth time. Nothing good came of them.

When he approached at last the front door to his beloved Bag-End, he took a deep breath and raised his hand to the doorknob –

Only for the door to be flung open by a scowling dragon wearing Bilbo's best and softest quilt as a robe.

“What kept you?” Smaug said. He was in his smaller form (he had to be – if Bag-End were five times as large it would've still been fives times too small to hold his larger one), and even crouched as he was, his wings scratched along Bilbo’s ceiling and knocked against the chandelier.

Bilbo hadn't time to gasp, “ _What_ –?” before the dragon ducked through the front door and stepped around him; he went straight to the pony and lifted the treasure chests as if they weighed no more than pillows. Then he herded Bilbo inside with him and slammed the door behind them both with his tail.

There were holes slashed in the back of the quilt for Smaug's wings and tail to fit through. _Smaug was in Bilbo's home and had slashed holes in Bilbo's best quilt and what was going on?_

“ _What_ –!” Bilbo said, but the dragon ignored him. He set the chests down, clicked them open, and rifled through the contents. Smaug's lip curled as he inspected the bits of gold and silver, and when he was done he said, “I _suppose_ this will do, though do not imagine me satisfied.”

“Smaug, _you're_ – but _how_ –?” Bilbo managed, but then Smaug rose and turned to Bilbo and began inspecting _him_ , hands at Bilbo's shoulders turning him as Bilbo's mouth worked silently. Smaug tutted at the bags under Bilbo's eyes and the wear and tear on his clothing and his minor cuts and bruises from travelling through the wilderness; and when Bilbo was turned full circle and again faced him, Smaug nodded once, as if Bilbo too passed inspection only by the skin of his teeth.

Bilbo continued to gape, looking back to his front door and then around his achingly familiar hobbit hole – more of his things than he was expecting were in their place, but he could tell many things were missing. And he wondered if his journey home was not, in fact, so uneventful, but that he was passed out somewhere cold and damp and unpleasant and this but a ridiculous dream. Perhaps he was still under the mountain.

His wondering was cut short when Smaug's tail wrapped around his middle, and Bilbo could only yelp as Smaug scooped up the treasure chests – _Bilbo's_ treasure chests, thank you very much – and dragged both the chests and Bilbo unerringly to the master bedroom.

“Now, _really_ ,” Bilbo said, staring. His blankets and sheets were stripped from the bed and bunched in a corner, and piled atop the mattress were Bilbo's finest silverware and his most decorative plates and his shiniest handkerchiefs, as well as what looked like all of his waistcoats and every last one of his missing trinkets.

“You cannot just –” But Bilbo halted himself mid-sentence, because clearly the dragon _could_ , because the dragon already had. Smaug overturned Bilbo's treasure chests onto the bed, one after the other; it was a waterfall of gold, stray coins and goblets clinking musically to the floor. A circlet landed on its side and slid down the pile, rolling to a stop at Bilbo's feet; Bilbo stared at its spinning, then at its rattling, and then at its settling.

“It will suffice,” Smaug said, in a voice that made certain Bilbo was fully aware of exactly how much it would not.

The dragon stepped gracefully onto the pile and settled down. He began picking up the gold and silver piece by piece, carefully inspecting and smelling and licking each, and Bilbo finally closed his mouth and shook his head and found the wits to demand, “Now wait just one minute!”

Smaug paused mid-lick, glancing up at Bilbo over the edges of the large silver coin he held to his mouth.

“You're – you're – and you can't just – well, first of all, you're _dead_. Bard shot you! You fell into the river!”

“Indeed I did,” Smaug said. “And no one was searching for someone as small as I am to come back out.”

“So … you weren't shot, then?”

Opening up his – no, not his, _Bilbo's_! – quilt, Smaug revealed an angry-looking gash marring his chest. Smaug looked down at his wound, frowning. “I … meant not to be. I knew they would attempt ambush at Lake-Town. I meant to merely come close and act as if struck. That man – Bard, you called him,” Smaug rubbed his fingers against the gash, his eyes dark. “His aim was … impressive.”

Bilbo's knees wobbled, abruptly weak, and he reached back behind him to cling to his dresser. He stared at Smaug, who was not meeting his gaze. “They said you charged straight for Lake-Town.”

“I did,” Smaug said.

“They said – they said you were fallen before you'd let loose a single flame,” Bilbo said.

“I was.”

“You did not – you did not kill anyone.”

“I did not,” Smaug agreed. “Though there were many deaths that day from what I saw, they were not by my hand.”

“Why didn't you _tell_ me? Why did you let me think …?” Bilbo trailed off. During the bleakness of the war and what followed, Bilbo could've used a bit of good news. And how turned around Bilbo had become, that learning that the great and terrifying O Smaug was alive counted as such!

“It was not my plan,” Smaug said, his voice a soft rumble. “Until the last moment I meant to slaughter those thieves at my front door. But … you were correct.”

“About what?” Bilbo asked, eyes wide and mouth dry.

“How could I call myself a dragon if the thought crossed my mind that even a single piece of my treasure was not worth the effort of keeping it?”

Bilbo thought back to Smaug in his enormous, fearsome form, vast and magnificent as he lorded over his vast and magnificent hoard. He compared that imagine to the sight before him, of Smaug smaller and hunched on a mound of Bilbo's dinky old things. And Bilbo could not wrap his head around the fact that he'd ever thought he could get away with offering this as a reasonable alternative. “But you lost most of it.”

“What I lost was not, as you persisted in reminding me, mine,” Smaug said. “And what I gained in exchange was given to me, and its worth to me is equal.”

Smaug's gaze on Bilbo was greedy and _fond_. This was too much. Bilbo slid to the floor, his back now against the dresser. “How did you find me?” he asked. Had Smaug always known? Had Bilbo only thought himself clever keeping such things from him?

“I asked the thrushes and the ravens and the crows what creatures live in holes in the ground and eat too much food and know too many stories, and they said 'hobbits.' I asked where hobbits could be found, and they said 'the Shire',” Smaug said. “Once here, I asked which hobbit was remarkable enough to be friend to dwarf and elf and dragon, and brave and clever enough to survive goblins and trolls and spiders, and they all said 'That must be Mad Bilbo Baggins, wherever he's off to these days.' And here I am.”

“You spoke to my _neighbours_?” Bilbo couldn't help but fixate on little points like these, because the larger ones were too difficult to reconcile right then. “You just – you just strolled into the Shire and – and –”

“I wore a _cloak_ ,” Smaug said. “I was not indiscreet. No one even witnessed me enter here. No one would've even _known_ if they hadn't got in their heads some ill-advised idea of stealing from you.”

“Not indiscreet,” Bilbo repeated, high-pitched. He would very much doubt that his nosy neighbours failed to notice Smaug, whatever Smaug thought. He suddenly recalled the scorched sign. “The auction ...”

“I intruded upon no one here. _They_ came banging on your door. They meant to sell off your treasures.” Smaug said 'your' in a way that clearly meant 'mine.' “What was I to do?”

“What _did_ you do?” Bilbo asked, though he feared the answer.

“I stood before them and I growled until they turned deathly pale and I demonstrated on their little sign what would happen to them should they not leave very quickly.”

Burying his face with his hands, Bilbo bit back a hysterical giggle. He could just imagine what their expressions had been and what they're saying about Bilbo _now_. Well, it's not as if Bilbo had a reputation left to him to maintain.

Smaug leaner closer and his red eyes narrowed. “You're not pleased,” he said. “Why aren't you more pleased? Is this not what you wanted?”

“Wanted?” Bilbo wailed. “You think I _wanted_ to come home and find a dragon had taken over my home?”

He hadn't realised how frequently Smaug was in motion – his wings twitching, his tail swaying, the colours in his eyes swirling, his head bobbing – until every inch of Smaug froze. “You swore –” he began and then cut himself off.

Bilbo dropped his hands and stared at Smaug, who stared unblinkingly back for a long, uncomfortable stretch of silence.

“Ah,” Smaug said. “So your word is worth what I'd thought after all.” He rose – stiffly, his usual grace absent and his wings held tightly to his body – and stepped off the bed. He left the bedroom and headed for the front door.

Bilbo blinked rapidly, and he stared at the empty space where Smaug had just been, and then he scrambled to his feet and called out, “Wait!” He rushed forward and blocked the front door, not that Smaug couldn't get past him with the slightest effort. “Wait.” He placed a hand on Smaug's arm and felt the iron tension beneath Smaug's skin. Smaug stared at his hand. “At least – you must at least stay to hear about my return journey,” he said.

“ _Very well_ ,” the dragon snarled, as if he was conceding to cutting off his own head for Bilbo's pleasure.

So Bilbo told him about travelling through the wilderness again and his time spent at Beorn's and in Mirkwood and at the Last Homely House. He told of how odd it was to travel in reverse and to pass places like the three stone trolls and wonder if he had actually lived through such wild adventures. He kept to himself everything that happened during the war and afterwards under the mountain; the dwarves' stories did not belong to Smaug. But everything else Bilbo offered, and it was a relief to speak without needing to censor names or identities or locations.

There were far too many stories to tell in one day, of course; with an enthralled audience like Smaug, whose tension bled out the more Bilbo talked, Bilbo could go on for days. Which Bilbo did, and then it seemed only fair that Bilbo got to hear Smaug's side of things.

With very little prompting, Smaug told Bilbo of his journey and how strange Middle-earth now was to him, as if two Ages had passed while Smaug slept in Erebor rather than just two centuries. How in the old, old days when more lands belonged to the dragons, it felt like he could fly the whole word from edge to edge in merely a few flaps of his wings; and how comparatively slow his recent journey seemed, traveling in his smaller form, and how unexpected it was to think of forest and river and hill as obstacles in front of him rather than passing scenery below. And yet, Smaug said, Middle-earth was smaller than he recalled. There weren't places for dragons anymore.

When they weren't telling stories, Smaug continued to obsessively catalogue all of the gold and silver and trinkets. For his part, Bilbo tidied up around Bag-End and had several of his clothes refitted for his leaner frame – though with proper meals he would bulk up soon enough to a more respectable weight – and restocked his pantry. Smaug's palate was hopelessly simplistic, though, and Bilbo soon enough thew his hands up at tempting him with seasoning and vegetables and potatoes and pastries and just left aside slabs of raw meat for Smaug to gobble up. Bilbo's substantial orders at the butcher's raised plenty of eyebrows, but Bilbo just smiled blandly and carried on.

After a bit of dithering, he hid the gold ring behind the mantlepiece, and though parting with it took effort he breathed easier when he did; Smaug would glance to where it was hidden, but he made no comment. At night, Bilbo slept in the guest bedroom, not wanting to make a fuss about his bed when Smaug would be going once they both caught up and ran out of stories.

Except they did not, and some evenings they didn't even speak – Bilbo would snuggle on his armchair with a blanket around his shoulders and a book and pipe in his hands and Smaug would doze in front of the fireplace and on every peaceful exhale they would both puff out a little curl of smoke.

* * *

One evening when Bilbo went to retire into the guest room, Smaug huffed and herded Bilbo into the master bedroom. He nudged and manhandled Bilbo until they were both curled atop the treasure-filled bed, the dragon twined around Bilbo's form and his vast wings arched above them, a leathery curtain shielding them from the room. The dragon's tail was securely around Bilbo's waist, and one of the dragon's ankles was hooked over one of Bilbo's own, and coins and candlesticks were digging uncomfortably in Bilbo's back. Bilbo stared up at the wing above his face and tried not to feel as content and _home_ as he did.

Bag-End had always been rather too large a place to live alone.

“If you're staying here, there are going to be rules,” he said.

“I expected,” Smaug said.

“And I expect you to follow every last one,” Bilbo said.

Smaug's lifted his head to peer down at him and his red eyes – no longer all that peculiar to Bilbo – narrowed. His tail hugged Bilbo tighter. “I will keep what was given to me and is now mine,” Smaug said. “At any price.”

“For starters,” Bilbo said, “my bed is not a treasure-hoard. I have dreamed for months and months of sleeping not only on a proper bed, but _my_ proper bed. The gold and everything else will have to go on the floor, and if you want to sleep on that uncomfortable mess, that will be your choice! Not the silverware. That is going right back into the kitchen.”

The dragon continued to stare down at Bilbo's face, and Bilbo thought he ought be afraid – he was negotiating the terms of living with a dragon! – but thought also that there was nothing to be afraid about. Smaug's tail loosened, and he settled back down against Bilbo.

So Bilbo listed all the rules he could think of, about behaving and no eating or killing or harming Bilbo's neighbours or anyone else and about respecting Bilbo's right to come and go as he pleased. There was to be absolutely no seeking revenge against Bard or anyone else. And Smaug agreed easily, because in the end, all the dragon wanted was to spend most of each day lounging lazily around with his treasure hugged to his chest.

Bilbo also emphasised that there was to be no more attempts at “companionship.” Smaug huffed several breaths against Bilbo's neck, and then he said, “Dragons seek companionship rarely, and only when they are much younger than me. But this now is not bothersome? If this too is against your wishes, so be it. But I would be … disappointed.”

“This is quite agreeable, O Smaug,” Bilbo assured him, patting Smaug's arm. He smiled at his dragon, and though Smaug did not smile back his sprawl loosened to a lazy satisfaction and he began making that pleased rumbling noise from deep in his chest.

Sometime later Bilbo reflected that living with a dragon was not as terrible as Bilbo would have imagined, should someone have posed the question to him even a few months ago. It was hardly ideal, but Bilbo was a pragmatic sort and knew that few situations were. And dragons, when one got right down to it, were really quite ridiculous creatures. Childish and possessive and so _vain_ Bilbo could not imagine how Smaug had lasted as long as he had without a hobbit to cater to his ego.

Dragons – or at least this particular one – were also charming and amusing and interesting; they were exceptional at keeping the home warm and toasty and at smoke ring competitions and at keeping away unwanted visitors; and quite frankly they were – in Bilbo's experience – most excellent to sleep against.

And Bilbo found that his heart was less heavy these days, and he didn't mind at all that his adventures were far from over or that nothing for him would ever be the same again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
